


Stolen Moments

by MizDirected



Series: The Primarch and the Commander [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crush at First Sight, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Science Fiction, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 91,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizDirected/pseuds/MizDirected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For long, dragging seconds, heart thundering and hands numb, Victus stares at the praela who fights toward his position, blowing in on a wind of fire and ash like the warrior goddesses of myth. Energy and purpose pour through flagging muscles and straining lungs. He clenches his rifle tight, his head finally clearing. They can't lose, not with the spirit of war on their side.</p><p>Written for the MEBB 2016.  Thanks Azzy and Commander Hot Pants for the glorious art.  Soooo much.</p><p>For Mia ... thank you for the endless support over how many years of friendship and fanfic.  Love yah!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One -- The Primarch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluekrishna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluekrishna/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primarch.
> 
> Tarc.
> 
> Outside war's embrace, he doubts that he knows who Adrien Victus is anymore. His mate died two decades before, leaving him two pahirs to raise. Both Terion and Tarquin now command units of their own, both of them independent young torins who never fail to inspire his awe. So yes, war forms the entirety of his galaxy, as weary of it as he's become.
> 
> And now, he's leaving it behind for a different war altogether.

**Gestallan** \- (particularly in reference to the wind or other force of nature) Of encompassing change. A change of fate or fortune. In turian mythology, it was believed that _Praelas_ rode such winds as their steeds, charging into battle to change the fates of individuals, tribes, and whole planets.

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

 **Buratrum** _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Quiritus** \- Applies to both genders equally. Equivalent to people or ladies and gentlemen.

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Drellak** \- Tall, relatively slender four legged herd animals weighing approximately 300 kilos. They have a thick, plated skin covered in thick, shaggy, very coarse hair that provides them with protection from the elements. They once wandered the entire planet in vast herds. They have formed the staple of the turian diet since hunters brought them down with stone hunting implements. In modern times, they run in free-range, managed herds.

 **Tapiris Fern** \- An enormous fern indigenous to Palaven's southern climates. It can grow to three or four metres tall and up to ten metres in diameter. At night the fronds curl themselves up into neat rolls that then line up into a cylindrical mass. When the sun hits them, they unfurl again.

* * *

Menae's thin atmosphere bites at the inside of General Adrien Victus's nostrils, cold and metallic, bearing thin layers of smoke, spent heat sinks, and death. He draws in a deep breath, pulling that scent all the way down into his soul. The smell of battle, a stink he both hates and loves. Hates … . He doesn't have to look far to see why he hates it. Less than a metre away, too many bodybags wait to be burned.

"General?"

He turns toward the call, but doesn't speak. After so many days of shouting orders, his voice … well, flat and hoarse can't begin to describe it. Instead, he raises his brow plates and nods, encouraging the young officer, Ralayis, to speak.

"Our scouts report three soldiers fighting their way down the valley," she said, stiffening to attention. "Looks like two humans and Vakarian, sir."

Relief in the form of three soldiers? High command's idea of a joke, surely. Hiding his disappointment and the growing weight of disaster, he nods to dismiss her. Despite his dismissal, she remains, trembling and eager, the very picture of why he loves war as much as he hates it. Spirits, they make his heart ache behind his keel … so beautiful in their eager courage, in the purity of life distilled to its barest essence.

"I think it's Commander Shepard, sir." Ralayis grins, her mandibles flicking so hard it must hurt. He opens his mouth to question her, but before he speaks, she spins on her talons and bolts back to the gate, no doubt wanting to witness the famous human's arrival.

The deep, pulsing beat of battle rolls out of the canyon to the east, the music growing clearer as it pushes through the smashed gates of the camp. Shepard? Maybe command hasn't abandoned them after all. If Vakarian is with her—and all his wild stories can be believed—the tide can turn to their favour at a moment's notice. Hope sparks, a low candle flame warming the back of his neck.

Anticipation murmurs through the ranks like a wind storm, gathering strength as his people strain, leaning over barricades and climbing up onto roofs of shelters to see. Victus merely watches despite their infectious enthusiasm. Behind his keel, his heart pounds just as quick and fierce as theirs, but he holds himself separate, aloof and unflappable, as is proper. Regardless of this rare breath of hope, the battle rages around them, and someone needs to keep their head in the fight while the rest snap holos and ask for autographs.

Shadows, black against the eternal grey, announce Harvesters soaring in from the west. He chuffs softly to himself at the Reapers' timing—he didn't need them to help emphasize the point—then bulwarks his spine, dropping his shoulders. Units drop, covering the ground in a thick layer of opposition to crush the newcomers and the hope that races in on their heels.

"Eyes and minds on the battle, _quiritus_!" he hollers. "Let's show these bastards what we're made of." Not that the Reapers care; the units that come for them are dispassionate corpses kept moving by tech and Reaper commands. He dispatches five of the batarian cannibals, taking down one, then tossing a grenade to finish off the four that cluster around it to feast. But no sooner do those fall than three of the turian units and a brute replace them.

He finds it both telling and ironic that the Reapers should so fear the arrival of a few, or maybe just the one, new soldier. They show their hand, and their level of fear, in their dedication to halting Shepard. Still, that's a contemplation for a time with fewer bullets whistling past his head. Within moments, his rifle grows hot in his hands, barking out the familiar, almost cherished, rhythm of war.

His old bones complain and muscles tremble as the Reaper units drop faster than his beleaguered people can kill them. It appears that the enemy intends to leave no one for Shepard to save if they can't stop her advance. Young, promising turians crumple, dragged to medics or placed in lines and covered, and still the Harvesters come. But then he hears the incoming fight closing on the camp. Part of him reels out, straining to pull the three extra guns in to help weather the storm. If only they can hold out for a few more seconds.

"Come on, _quiritus_! Let's drive these bastards straight to _buratrum_!"

A Marauder holds his attention when a _gestellan_ wind roars through camp, announced by rockets detonating amidst the enemy ranks. As the C &C unit reaches over the wall, dagger-like talons grappling at Victus's armour, a volley of rockets blow it to buratrum. Searing shrapnel slices into his exposed head and neck, pulling a hoarse bellow from raw vocal chords. The explosion leaves his head ringing and his senses dazed.

A strong, feminine voice breaks through the tinnitus.

"Garrus, push that brute back on the right." Spirits, she's tiny compared to her turian and human companion. At least she seems so through the blurry fog. He squints at the figure in jet-black armour races through the middle of camp, leaps over a shipping container, and springs onto the high ground on the south side of camp. Amazing him, she barely pauses as she runs over the uneven ground tapping at her omnitool to send a heavy blast of energy arcing along another C&C unit. It drops, cursing in garbled machine language as her rifle pounds two keenly aimed rounds through its head.

Victus pushes himself up off the shed floor as the soldier stops behind a half-wall of hastily piled rock, but doesn't take cover. Despite his still-ringing head, he lifts his rifle as she hollers, "James, burn down that second brute's armour." Surely, he can manage to hit a target as large as a brute. He doesn't fire, though, his attention on her. Fingers dance over her omnitool again, sending a searing incendiary blast to assist with that goal. "Don't let them get up to the sheds. Keep them off the turians."

"Does that include me?" Vakarian hollers back. A warm chortle rolls up Victus's throat.

A brilliant, almost manic, smile flashes across her face. "Of course not, stop being a big baby, and get your ass up here."

For long, dragging seconds, heart thundering and hands numb, Victus stares at the _praela_ who fights toward his position, blowing in on a wind of fire and ash like the warrior goddesses of myth. Energy and purpose pour through flagging muscles and straining lungs. He clenches his rifle tight, his head finally clearing. They can't lose, not with the spirit of war on their side.

"This is our chance to drive these bastards to their knees!" he hollers over the furious din. A wide smile sets his mandibles fluttering as his people take up the cry, their hope bolstered by the same whirlwind of bullets and death that has his heart hammering against his keel. The galaxy seems to still around her as she strides through battle, never taking cover, casually rolling out of the path of a brute to come up shooting fire and bullets into the construct.

The last enemy falls. Shepard steps over its corpse, hanging her Mattock from her back in one smooth motion. The easy swing of her gait ... her sharp, almost predatory stare ... her confidence: that of someone so in their element that they exude ownership ... her presence snatches the air from his lungs.

"General Victus?"

Even her voice doesn't disappoint—husky and rich—and a heated flush burns beneath his plates. He's reacting like a sheltered teenager, and he needs to get it under control. Sweet spirits, he's a general in the middle of _buratrum_. He takes a deep breath. It's gratitude. Shepard saved his people. It's just gratitude.

He cracks his neck, polices his idiocy, and hangs up his Phaeston before he hits the gate control. "Yes?" He winces as some of his awe escapes through his subvocals. His men are too far back to hear, but he slides an embarrassed glance toward Vakarian, who stands at Shepard's eight. The other _torin's_ mandible twitch and nod communicate nothing but understanding. Victus supposes Garrus would understand, he certainly hasn't been miserly with praise while he regales the troops with wild stories of Shepard's exploits.

She gives him a tight smile. "I'm Commander Jane Shepard of the _Normandy_."

"Commander," he says, carefully modulating his voice, "I know who you are. I can't wait to see what brought you all the way out here." He forces his eyes from Shepard's freckles to look over at Garrus. Shepard arriving on the moon explains why Vakarian hadn't come after him earlier. Clasping his hands behind his back, he takes parade rest, trying to cover his reaction to the human. "Vakarian, where did you go?"

A soft chuff answers his question as Vakarian leans back on one hip, arms hanging loose and relaxed. Victus envies him his ease as he replies, "I believe your exact words were, 'get that giant Reaper bastard off my men?'"

Sliding a layer of gratitude and humour through his words, he nods. "Appreciate it."

"General," Shepard says, stepping to within arm's reach, "you're needed off planet. I'm here to evacuate you to the _Normandy_."

Her words send slivers of ice sliding down his spine, and he looks away. Why? What good could he possibly be out there? Suddenly, he can think again, denial and confusion throwing up a very effective buffer against his emotions. "It will take something beyond important for me to leave my men, or my turian brothers and sisters in their fight."

"Fedorian's been killed," Vakarian supplied, his subvocals ringing with no small amount of 'better you than me'. "You're the new primarch."

Shepard's voice on the other hand, while still strong and professional, carries a tone of empathy. "You're needed immediately to chair a summit," she says, closing another half step, "and represent your people in the fight against the Reapers."

Victus blinks into the expectant green of her gaze. Primarch? Dear spirits. How many of his tier must be dead if he's the next option? He tears his eyes away, his stare moving to the burning, black nightmare on the horizon. Palaven burns. She burns, and now she rests squarely on his shoulders. Her fate … her salvation … is his responsibility. He steps past Shepard, walking to the edge of the short drop off. As he stares up at his world, no one standing in his eyeline, he feels as though he's the last turian left in the galaxy.

And then he feels her eyes on the back of his neck, and reaches up to rub at the plates. "I'm primarch of Palaven, negotiating on behalf of the hierarchy?"

"Yes," she replies, her frankness almost drawing a bitter chuckle from him.

He turns to face her. "I've spent my entire life in the military." He's not sure if he means to explain his reluctance or to convince her to tell the hierarchy she found his corpse. Maybe he's trying to talk himself into taking up the impossible mantle, or maybe he's hoping she'll say something to convince him. Spirits, it's all so insane. "I'm no diplomat. I hate diplomats."

Her chuckle eases his awkwardness a little. "Sold!" Letting out a long breath, she leans on one hip. "We're in the middle of the most brutal war this galaxy has faced in fifty thousand years, General. We don't need leaders to stand on pedestals and spit rhetoric at us." As she speaks, the passion in her words builds until even the men standing back in the sheds are leaning toward her, drawn into that fire. "We need men and women who know the trenches … who know what we're facing and aren't afraid to do what needs to be done."

Taking his first full breath since Vakarian's announcement, he steps toward her, legs still shaky but stronger, beginning to accept the weight. "You're right." And she is. He feels it in his bones. Fedorian, as good a leader as he was in peace, would have floundered. He would have tried to negotiate, and words would have been all the former primarch threw at the Reapers. As primarch, Victus could make sure those fighting on the front lines—those trying to keep his people alive—got what they needed.

"And to be honest, sir … I'm going to need someone there strong enough to pull me off the actual diplomats before I can strangle them." A sly grin tugs back one corner of her mouth, and she winks. "I think you just might be the _torin_ for the job."

Vakarian chuffs again and nods. "I won't do it, not after the last council meeting. Took three months for the black eye to fade." He stabs a thumb at Shepard. "She doesn't look it, but she's vicious."

Shepard buries an elbow in his side, but her smile speaks to the strength and depth of their friendship. It fades as her gaze moves past him to the fires burning across Palaven's surface. "See this destruction, Primarch?" She leans heavily on the title. "Double that for Earth. I need alliances; I need your fleet. Not today, but one day we're going to have to stop fighting holding actions and go after them. The Reapers nailed us all to the wall, Primarch: saving the Third and Fifth Alliance Fleets cost us the Second."

Shepard turns back to meet his stare, her eyes and jaw steely. "With the losses we're all taking, we're going to have to stand together to have a shot of taking them down."

He turns back to his people's homeworld. She's right, of course. The evidence of that burns before him.

Primarch.

_Tarc._

Outside war's embrace, he doubts that he knows who Adrien Victus is anymore. His mate died two decades before, leaving him two _pahirs_ to raise. Both Terion and Tarquin now command units of their own, both of them independent young _torins_ who never fail to inspire his awe. So yes, war forms the entirety of his galaxy, as weary of it as he's become.

And now, he's leaving it behind for a different war altogether.

"Let me say good bye to my men, make sure command sends another senior officer to take my place." When she nods, he turns and strides back to the shed and the radio. Despite his fears, each step comes easier. The burden Fedorian's death has dumped on his cowl is a heavy one, but he's learned over the cycles, sometimes the most difficult missions reap the sweetest rewards. If he can activate his people—and help bring the galaxy together—they might just save themselves.

Still ….

Primarch of Palaven. Dear spirits.

* * *

 

The Normandy feels surgical-suite sterile after the blood and filth of Menae's surface. He's given private quarters in Life Support and time to shower. A shower! The hot water pours over him like bliss. He's forgotten what it felt like to move without grit grinding between his plates. Dressed in a casual suit—the only one in his kit—he heads up to the war room. The young women standing guard outside _Normandy's_ classified sections salute as he passes through the scanner. He nods, hoping it's an appropriate response within the Alliance military.

Hesitating just inside the door, Victus looks around the _Normandy_ 's war room. It's the equivalent, if not superior, of anything installed in the fleet. Impressive, to say the least.

On the opposite side of a large holoprojector, Shepard stands hunched over a terminal, her hands braced against the console as she reads. A hand lifts to rake through her hair and scrub the back of her neck, a familiar enough gesture for him to know that whatever she's reading isn't good news. Looking up, she smiles and waves to beckon him further in.

"Primarch. Welcome to the _Normandy_. I trust the crew showed you around, helped you get settled in?" She meets him partway around the central installation and holds out a hand to clasp his wrist.

Her grip is strong and warm enough to heat his hide through his gloves; her wrist feels frail and so slender his talons can wrap around it almost twice. "Yes, thank you, Commander," he says. His talons respond, stiff and reluctant as he releases her. "You command quite the vessel. I've yet to see her equivalent."

Shepard clears her throat and spins on her heel, leading him deeper into the room. "I wish we were all seeing about a thousand more of her, sir." A long sigh drags along the floor between them before she throws her shoulders back and cracks her neck, all trace of anything not 'Commander Shepard' disappearing.

"This is the comm room," she says, climbing the stairs. As he follows, he tries to keep his gaze on the equipment rather than on her. She seems so much smaller out of armour, a fact that either his brain or eyes find endlessly fascinating. "We have a primary and secondary QEC if you need to conference in calls. All of my calls tend to be scheduled, and I log them all here." He watches over her shoulder as she enters commands, calling up her log, then another screen. "These are all the personal comm codes for the crew and team members, if you need to contact anyone. Their rank and department/duties are right on the list. If you have any doubt, Specialist Traynor is the woman to talk to."

His mental notes become mental shorthand as she whips through the systems. Luckily, the tech isn't all that different between human and turian. After all, most advanced tech in the entire galaxy stems from the same source: the damned Reapers. He scrambles to keep up, filing away the information at a speed that leaves him slightly dizzy.

Shepard spins away from the console so quickly that she startles him, returning to the war room at a quick march. "This is my console here, any of the others are yours to use as you see fit. Normal comms can be routed through any of them. Once you've got a feel for the room," she said, a slight smirk twitching one corner of her mouth, "and chosen a console that appeals to your sense of feng shui and decorating aesthetics, I'll have Traynor come to lock it down for you. It can be as pass code and biometric protected as you desire."

Watching her, Victus marvels at the sheer speed of thought and speech. His translator stumbles over _feng shui_ , but the teasing animation in her face and gestures lend enough context for him to follow. He chooses a terminal two over from hers. He tells himself that it's so they can work in relative privacy without having to talk through the projector. But as she turns away, a reflex action, to call the comm specialist to secure his terminal, he allows himself at least an inkling of the real reason.

Thirty minutes later, he's set up with everything he could possibly need to track the war and do a job he doesn't have the faintest idea how to even start doing. That is, until he sees the ground reports from Palaven. The capital Reapers and destroyers are bad enough, but the ground units are committing the true devastation, and the turian ground forces are outnumbered and overwhelmed. Where did all the ground troops come from? The war has only been underway a week, and already hundreds of thousands of batarian, human, and turian husks swarm through the cities.

He must say something to that nature under his breath, because he feels Shepard's eyes on him, and she says, "The why and the how don't matter much now, do they?"

Shaking his head, he leans on the console, his posture mirroring hers when he entered the room. "No, what matters now is stemming the tide. The Reapers are building camps outside every city, and they've brought in specialized Reapers to process the people either into more husks or … something. They're simply disappearing." He sighs. "We're being out-fought on every front. At least in space we can feint and use guerilla attacks."

After finishing her work, Shepard closes her terminal, moving to the comm room stairs, where she sits and rests her elbows on her knees. Fingers steepled at her lips, she asks, "So what do we do about it, Primarch Victus?"

He doesn't know if he's ever felt such a weight of expectant scrutiny, but he's the primarch and knows it will be the first of many. For three horrible seconds, his brain goes numb—not just quiet, absolutely void, every synapse dissolving into _drellak_ fat. Dear spirits, high command can't even comprehend what a massive mistake they've made.

Then his mouth opens. "The krogan," is what comes out.

Shepard presses her lips together, an expression he believes is one of approval. "So, invite the krogan to the summit, see if we can convince Wrex to round up a million or so krogan boots?"

"As long as there are krogan inside the boots, yes." It's all he can do to avoid slapping himself in the side of the head, but then a wide smiles unfurls across her face, a _tapiris_ fern opening to catch the sun.

"It's probably going to cost us," she says, a sigh chasing the words out. Her hands drop to hang between her knees. "But, I think you're right. We need the krogan, and hell, if we can organize them, the vorcha. As mercenary as it sounds, any fighting force that isn't crippled by healing time is worth its weight in platinum." Her eyes leave his for the first time, staring into the distance. Still, he can see the wheels turning, and within twenty seconds, she meets his gaze again.

"Okay, I'll call Urdnot Wrex, and the council … get representatives from the other races here as well." Her eyebrows lower, the skin between them wrinkling a little, and for a second, he has to wrestle down his hand's traitorous desire to reach up and smooth the knot away. "Can you take care of getting someone here from the volus? I'll have Udina contact the hanar and elcor."

Brow plates rising, he arches his neck a little. "You want all the races here?"

Her thoughtful frown deepens into something approaching annoyed. "They feel marginalized when it comes to galactic politics and decision making. We need everyone pulling together." She shrugs, but her eyes flash. "Will leaving them out of this summit, the most important meeting in the last fifty thousand years, make them eager to throw in as partners?"

Shaking his head, the misunderstanding burning, he says, "Apologies, my reaction was surprise, not disapproval. You're right, of course."

Shepard pushes up. "All right. We have a plan." She turns and strides up the few steps to the comm room, but hesitates at the top, turning back. "So, how's the first day as Primarch treating you?"

Victus shakes his head. "It's nothing like I imagined. My people are fighting for their lives against an enemy so terrifying we couldn't have even imagined it, and I'm here, light years away, reading casualty reports." Holding her stare, he lets out a long breath. "I can't stop feeling as though I need to go back."

She smiles, a kind light shining in her gaze. "I know how you feel, Primarch. Leaving Earth to come out here and try to pull all these bickering politicians together … " Care and worry eclipse her smile, a cloud blocking the sun, and he wishes he could push it back. "... well, I don't think I've done anything harder."

Nodding, he steps closer. "We find ourselves in very similar positions, Commander. You never asked to lead, but if you don't, your people—" Breaking off, he sighs. "If we don't perform miracles, all our people will die. May the spirits grant us the strength to see it through."

"From your mouth to God's ears, Primarch." Turning on her heel, she strides into the comm room, and a moment later he hears her arguing with the asari councillor. Nothing is ever easy or runs smoothly. He knows this from years of planning and executing operations, but as he listens to Councillor Tevos tell Shepard that her efforts are doomed to failure, he wishes for Shepard's sake that it wasn't the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have fallen so in love with these two crazy kids and their awkward, adoring friendship. I hope you love them just as much as I do. *hugs* 
> 
> Thanks to all the friends who supported me through the process. I love yah! Yeah, you know who you are: theherocomplex, Orangeflavour, thedandiestoflions, KirikaClyne, I_write_tragedies_not_sins, MosaicCreme, and the gang from the Mass Effect fan fiction writers group on FB.


	2. Chapter Two -- Politics and other Traumas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching after the flustered commander, he chuckles, wishing she'd given him a chance to tell her not to worry about it. Spirits, even if it's just when he yawns, she thinks him adorable. It's not rakishly, breathlessly good-looking, but it's a start. He should go after her, but as he moves to shut down his terminal, an alphus pria message catches his attention.
> 
> When he opens it, he stares at the message from the CDEM commander overseeing the krogan DMZ, not quite believing what he's seeing. What in the name of buratrum could his people have been thinking? Doomsday bombs? Leaning heavily on the console, he runs through his options, wishing that 'leaving this to the primarch' had a place on the list.

**Alphus Pria** \- Highest priority or alert level in the turian internal and external forces.

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Buratrum** _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

 **Pahir** \- Son

 **Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

 **Ungentira** \- A large warm blooded, cat-like predator native to the high mountains of Palaven. It is neither mammal or reptile, but has aspects of both, featuring a heavy, plated hide along its back, and a rich, luxurious pelt along their underside. They are ferocious predators, frequently taking on prey three or four times their size, which is approximately the same as a labrador retriever.

* * *

Stifling a wide yawn behind a hand, Victus looks down to check the chrono on his terminal. 0100 ship time. _Tarc_. He cracks his neck and stretches. Fifty more messages await his attention, but he feels as though his eyelids are lined with sandpaper, scraping his eyes raw with every blink.

Another yawn stretches his jaw until it cracks. From two terminals over, he hears a low, delighted chuckle. When he glances over at Shepard, she just shrugs.

"Sorry, Primarch. I managed to resist the first time, but … yawning turians … it's …" She slumps a little as she sighs. "... it's adorable. I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, I promise. Garrus usually just punches me." Closing down her terminal, her face as red as the stripe down the arm of her jacket, she bobs her head and utters a quick goodnight. Juggling a scattered armload of datapads and muttering under her breath about causing diplomatic incidents, she flees before he can stop her.

Watching after the flustered commander, he chuckles, wishing she'd given him a chance to tell her not to worry about it. Spirits, even if it's just when he yawns, she thinks him adorable. It's not rakishly, breathlessly good-looking, but it's a start. He should go after her, but as he moves to shut down his terminal, an _alphus pria_ message catches his attention.

When he opens it, he stares at the message from the CDEM commander overseeing the krogan DMZ, not quite believing what he's seeing. What in the name of _buratrum_ could his people have been thinking? Doomsday bombs? Leaning heavily on the console, he runs through his options, wishing that 'leaving this to the primarch' had a place on the list.

Maybe he can talk to Shepard about it, have her approach Wrex with him. It is the most honest, transparent solution, but he knows so little about either of them. Shepard is fierce in her defense of the krogan. He doubts that she'll tell him to forget about the alliance but Wrex? Wrex might pull his _sikah_ and challenge Victus to an honour duel for all he knows.

No, as much as it sickens him, if he can deal with it quickly and quietly, best to just keep everything classified _alphus pria_ and hope for the best. That decided, despite betrayal sitting in his gut like a block of lead, he finds the list of people he trusts to do the job quietly and correctly is short. The list of people in which he places absolute faith contains two names. With Terion already on an _alphus pria_ mission to evacuate Palaven's citizens to secure, secret shelters, the list narrows down to one.

His hand hovers over the communications encoder. Maybe he should tell Shepard. No, he can't risk their fragile partnership. He secures a channel to Tarquin's ship.

"General … ." Tarquin's mandibles flick with a teasing grin as he slaps his brow. "Oh, no … you're one of them now." 'Them' carries a heavy subvocal of dread and disaster. "So, Primarch, then, what can this humble citizen of the empire do for your illustrious self?" His _pahir_ stares at him for a moment, his eyes narrowing, then all traces of teasing humour melt away. "What is it, Primarch? Terion? Is he …?"

Victus holds up his hands to still his _pahir's_ worry. "Terion is fine and halfway between Palaven and one of the safe harbours." He glances side to side, checking the positions of the _Normandy's_ crew. "I'm sending you an _alphus pria_ message on your private, encoded channel." As he speaks, he enters his _pahir's_ orders and attaches the original message. "Maintain radio silence. Contact my personal secure channel only in a case of extreme emergency."

Tarquin reads down the message, then looks up and nods, once. "Understood, Primarch Victus. We'll get it done."

Allowing himself a pride-filled smile, Victus nods. "I know you will, Lieutenant. Take care. Good hunting." He holds eye contact for another few seconds, then touches the backs of his talons to his brow. Official or not, they're at war, and every mission … _tarc_ , every second could prove their last chance to say what needs to be said, even if not out loud.

"I'll contact you when it's done, Primarch." Tarquin salutes, then touches the backs of his talons to his brow as well before the channel closes.

Victus glances over at the _Normandy_ personnel again, self-conscious despite the fact that humans have a similar gesture: blowing a kiss, he believes they call it. He smiles at that. Some things transcend race, love at the head of that list.

* * *

The salarian dalatrass, Linron, reminds Victus of two things: why he chose a career shooting people rather than negotiating with them and that, as primarch, he really needs to remember not to say everything on his mind.

"I don't have the time or inclination to dance around the issues, Wrex," he says. Stiffening, he grasps his hands behind his back in his 'just lay it out', pose. It works on his men when they're trying to talk around something. He hears the thick layer of annoyance in his tone, and eases back a little, taking a deep breath before he continues, "Just tell us what you want."

Wrex bristles and leans forward against the conference table long enough to catch everyone's eye before he grins and shoves himself away. Damn, what's coming is going to make at least three of the other attendees squeal. "I'll tell you what I need: a cure for the genophage."

The generalized stink of fear in the room ramps up into a very specific one, strong enough to ping Victus's gag reflex. The elcor, Calyn, and salarian dalatrass emit the worse pheromone clouds: the elcor because it's part of their communication. The salarian, however, doesn't just give off fear. He turns a pointed stare to watch her. Something sly and vicious slips through her scent. Shifting under his intense regard, the dalatrass sidesteps closer to Shepard.

"No. I won't even consider such a thing," she declares. Waving a dismissive hand at Wrex, she turns away and stalks to a window. "I knew there would be no point coming. You can't negotiate with krogan, Shepard."

The ambient fear increases again, pulling a barbed sigh from Victus's throat. He should have know the salarians would refuse to see reason. Well, at least until Reapers storm across Sur'kesh. The rest all look to him in their fear, as if he can protect them or give them a place to hide in his decision.

His brow plates drop when he turns to the void in the field of fear: Shepard. A toothy, sharp smile creeps across her face as she turns to watch the dalatrass. Her pheromones speak of joy, and a stubbornness that he knows will break the dalatrass given time. Spirits, she's brilliant. Her faith in Wrex is so great that she would cure the krogan, without hesitation.

Then she speaks, halting the flush of heat washing beneath the plates in his neck and face.

"What's your problem, Dalatrass?" Shepard shrugs, an impatient spasm across her shoulders. "The krogan have suffered long enough, haven't they? No one who fought in the rebellions is even alive now, and Wrex is making huge strides uniting the clans and steering them toward being a real partner alongside the rest of the races."

Wrex makes a soft rumble in his throat. In return, Shepard nods and steps back. Victus relaxes, his arms hanging loose. It looks as though Vakarian was right about the depth of friendship and respect between Shepard and the krogan leader. It's deep and unbreakable. He might not know or trust Wrex, but Victus trusts that bond, born in the brotherhood of battle.

"It's been one thousand, four hundred, and seventy-six cycles," the krogan confirms. He glares at Linron, leaning in again. "Do you know how many dead krogan pups that equals?"

The dalatrass hardens rather than softening. "It's been a millennia and a half of peace, free of these … brutes."

Both sides throw up bulwarks, leaning in, set to begin a war of words. His planet doesn't have time for all the posturing and keel pounding. "Enough," he says, snapping hard enough with his subvocals that both parties step back. "Whether they deserve a cure for the genophage or not, it's academic. It will take years to formulate one, and the war is sending us all into extinction now."

Letting out a breath that feels too close to defeat, he leans against the table. He can see by the set of Wrex's jaw that the krogan intends to push.

"My information says otherwise," the clan leader argues. He strides around the table, challenging Victus with a glare and a head tilt, but the general just steps aside to let the krogan use the controls at the end of the table.

The krogan brings up vid, explaining it as it plays out: a camera shooting footage inside what appears to be a salarian research base. Victus frowns and steps closer to the vid when he sees the shadow of the cameraperson on the floor: salarian. His mandibles flick in a wide grin before he contains it. It appears not all salarians agree with the dalatrass.

"A salarian scientist grew a conscience and came to Tuchanka to create a cure. He was testing it on our females." Wrex steps back to allow the rest of the delegates to see the footage.

"This one finds this information most disturbing," the hanar ambassador says, his voice soft, the first of the other delegates to speak. A blue and then a deep purple flash over the field surrounding his body.

"I remember." Shepard's voice sounds as though she's fighting not to gag. Victus turns to face her when he hears the sorrow and fury running under her words. "Maelon's experiments were barbaric. That place wasn't a lab, it was a den of horrors. We didn't find any survivors." Her empathy tints her words as clearly as colours flash across the hanar.

Wrex turns to look at his friend. "But what you didn't know was that some females survived his experiments, escaping out into the rubble." A gaze of appreciation and affection forges into a blade of molten hate as it turns to the dalatrass. "The dalatrasses sent in the STG to clean up the mess, take the females prisoner, and hide any trace of Maelon's cure."

"How do we know any of this is real?" the dalatrass's protest rings with desperation.

"Don't insult me. Those are my people, and they're immune to the genophage." Every millimetre the predator, Wrex leaps in, going for the salarian's exposed underbelly. "And you're going to give them back." He lunges toward the dalatrass, entire body set to do damage, his energy so close to tipping into violence that Victus slips between them.

"Dalatrass, is this true?" The salarians' sneakiness and whitewash job doesn't surprise him. Although the turians' distrust and anger over krogan actions during the rebellions once boiled just as hot as the salarians', the turian people have also been faster to let it go.

Linron backs toward the wall, her arms locked down over her chest, terrified and defensive. "What will curing the genophage do for my people?" she demands, haughty.

Shepard laughs, the sound so cold it sends a shudder up Victus's spine. "That's the way you want to play this?" Pressing her lips together, she nods. "Okay, fine, but when the Reapers are tearing apart salarian worlds, don't expect a single Alliance soldier to lift a finger to help you. You can go it alone and feel good about the fact that you stand secure in your stubborn determination to be right."

Victus meets the _praela's_ eyes across the table and nods, flicking his mandibles in a faint smile. After holding Shepard's gaze for probably a good twenty seconds too long, he turns, rounding the table to face the dalatrass. Solidarity, it is.

"And I'll be the last friendly turian you ever see." He draws himself tall, arching his neck. "The krogan once thought threatening our utter destruction would back us down." One brow plate lifting slowly, for effect, he leaned in. "You recall how well that worked." Tilting his head toward Wrex, he continues, "The krogan now stands at my side, and you stand in the position of threatening my entire race."

In the wake of his words, the other delegates raise their voices in support of Wrex. Politicians voting in the best interest of their people, even if it stems from fear. Truly, wonders never cease.

Delight rings through Shepard's husky voice as she says, "Ouch. Well, Dalatrass Linron, what's it going to be?" She meets Victus's eyes again, this time giving him a crooked grin and a wink.

"The females are being kept at one of our STG bases on Sur'kesh," the salarian says, the words spat like poison darts. Then she straightens, a long finger jabbing at Shepard, as if the human is responsible for her defeat. "But, I'm warning you, Commander. The consequences of this moment will haunt you for centuries to come."

Shepard spins, graceful and dangerous, an _ungentira_ leaping for her prey's throat. "You expect me to fear the wrath of the salarians compared to the consequences of the Reapers winning? Seriously, Dalatrass?" She leans against the table, and for a second Victus thinks he might need to risk taking a black eye and leap in to hold Shepard back. He stomps on the part of him that wouldn't mind wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his body, then kicks it into a back closet, locking it away.

Shepard leers at the salarian delegate, her confidence—one born of a lifetime of turning threatening words into promises—setting his heart thumping hard and fast against his keel. She's magnificent. "Don't threaten me, Dalatrass," Shepard warns. "That particular tactic never ends well for people. We're going now. We're bringing back those females, and we're curing the genophage. Get on board or get out of my way."

Fear turning to aggression, the dalatrass leaps back at Shepard. "You aren't setting foot on Sur'kesh. This will take time to arrange, and when it is arranged, you—"

Shepard lunges for the salarian so quick and violent that the rest of the delegates hurry for the door. Trying not to chuckle, Victus steps between them, his voice even as he says, "This happens now. Shepard is a council Spectre and can oversee the exchange." He turns his back to the sputtering dalatrass and strides around the table, herding Shepard ahead of him.

Once they enter the decon area, he laughs, low and relieved, wincing at the subvocal of affection that rolls beneath the words. "You weren't joking about my needing to pull you off the diplomats."

She sighs instead of smiling. "I have a low bullshit-spouting, arrogant-posturing threshold. It gets me into trouble now and again."

Although he stifles his laughter, he doesn't bothering to disguise his delight at her words. "We have more in common than I could have believed, Commander."

* * *

Shepard takes Garrus and the human, Vega, on the ground mission to Sur'kesh. She insists that they all wear cameras, the feeds relaying back to the war room in case the salarians cause trouble with the council. Victus shakes his head as he watches them land on the surface with all their usual charm and tact.

It's Wrex's fault, but Shepard smoothes things over before bullets are exchanged. He smiles as he watched her renew acquaintances as she waits for the clearances. A salarian major, Kirrahe, pledges to help Shepard no matter what the dalatrasses decide, a pledge made out of friendship and gratitude. As Victus watches Shepard, he wishes the politicians could understand that if they made her their friend, they'd possess the fiercest ally anyone could hope for.

Alarms begin to blare: the base is under attack. Shepard and her team hurry into the elevator, and communications dissolve into static.

Opening a channel, he calls, "Specialist Traynor, what happened to the feeds?"

"All comms in or out of the base are being jammed, sir," the comm specialist replies, alarm singing through her voice. "Working to find the source and re-establish comms." A pause. "You have uncanny timing, Primarch. I have an encrypted message incoming for your on a secure channel. Rerouting to your terminal."

"Thank you, Specialist. Victus, out." Opening the message when it appears on his terminal, he reads it. Tarquin? _Tarc_ , his _pahir_ is supposed to remain dark until his mission is complete.

_Except in the case of disaster._

Closing his eyes, he draws in a long breath and tries to keep his heart rate below FTL speeds. Tarquin sent the message, so he's alive. Whatever else has gone wrong, they can handle it. Another breath and he opens a channel, walking up into the comm room to buy privacy as the channel opens to static and the sounds of battle.

"Tar—Lt. Victus, this is Primarch Victus. What's your situation? Do you read? What's your situation?" He strains to hear through the cacophony of battle, his heart taking a pick axe to the inside of his keel structure. Dear Spirits, had he made a mistake? Damn it, he should have just told Shepard—

"Primarch, … read you. … ship … gone down … chanka. Under fire … ound units. Requ… orders … evac. Do … ead?"

Hearing his son's voice calms his heart enough to reply. "Understood. Find somewhere defendable and dig in." He clenches his jaw so tight, he's not sure the words will come out, let alone be understood. Denial floods his brain, ice water leaving him numb and frozen as he replies, "Request for evac denied. Sending support. Mission is a priority. When support arrives, mission objective must be completed."

There's a long moment of gunfire. Someone screams in pain in the distance, but then Tarquin returns. "Understood. Awai … upport. … ctus out."

Returning to his console at a quick march, Victus looks at the chrono and then to the feeds from Sur'kesh. They're still a wash of static. "Any word from Sur'kesh, Specialist?" he asks, glancing over at Shepard's console.

Traynor's tone gives him no reasons for celebration. "Urdnot Wrex got a message through a moment ago. Cerberus is attacking the base, trying to kill the only surviving krogan female. Shepard is having to fight her way up through the levels. I'll let you know if I hear anything more."

Shepard returns to the _Normandy_ one hundred-eighty-six minutes and forty-three seconds of pouring over the reports Tarquin manages to send him later. She's still in her armour when she calls him, Wrex, and a salarian from the surface to the conference room nine minutes after that. She stinks of smoke and death. Blood streams down the side of her head, but she merely swipes it away with a rag when it reaches her cheek. The occasional head shake makes him wonder if she's concussed. Do humans get concussed? And how long will it take her to be battle ready if she is?

He hates himself a little as that thought blunders through, but his _pahir_ … the baby he helped learn to walk, who used to cling to him and cry every time he was deployed … Tarquin is out there, and Shepard is the only weapon Victus can see being able to save him. He stands rigid, jaw clenched, hands clasped behind his back. Plans are on point for getting help to his planet. It's a start.

"Time to get the cure underway," Wrex says, sticking out his jaw in a belligerent way that assures Victus that the krogan is looking for a fight.

Why does the krogan have to fight and stall on every point? "You've got the female, Wrex," he insists, hating the thread of annoyed desperation that escapes into his voice. He swallows it. "The cure for the rest of your people can come later. We need to deploy your troops now." And they do. Palaven burns, and all he can do is read reports on how many more millions of his people have died.

Wrex shakes his head and crosses his arms, the gesture seeming to root him into the floor panels, as immovable as stone. "That wasn't the deal."

"Palaven needs reinforcements now, not in six months or a year." And his _pahir_ needs them within hours.

"Unless every krogan gets the cure, there's no alliance." Wrex turns away, looking out the port, and from the shift in Shepard's posture, which Victus sees out of the corner of his eye, the debate is done.

Shepard looks to the salarian at her side. "Mordin, give me some good news here."

"Need to synthesize base antigen from female. Also requires healthy male krogan tissue. Will need sample." He opens his mouth to keep going, but Shepard stops him with a hand right in his face.

"My head hurts, Mordin, just spit it out." She sags against the table. "How long?"

Mordin takes Shepard's jaw in his hand, turning her head one way, then the other before releasing her and activating his omnitool, all while answering her question. "Several days, a week? Science doesn't follow timetable, Shepard. Suffering from severe concussion. Should be in med—"

Again, she cuts him off with a hand, this time planted on his shoulder. "Then stop talking and start sciencing," she says, affection warming her brusque, slightly nonsensical command. When the salarian leaves, muttering about science not being a verb, Shepard looks to him and Wrex.

"Is there anything else?" she asks, allowing herself to lean into the console.

"Something has come up," Urdnot Wrex tells her. "Something important, but I can't talk about it here. We'll have to discuss it later, in private."

Shepard nods, a chuckle rolling out to land hard. "Okay, I'll find you after I see the Doc and my brain stops ringing like a gong in a drum line." She waits until Wrex leaves, then stares Victus straight in the eye. "You're hella good at hiding it, but you've been standing on a tack since I got back." She doesn't ask, just holds that laser drill dead center until its burn is too much to stand.

"A turian ship went down on Tuchanka," he reports, keeping his voice even and professional. "They were on an _alphus pria_ mission, and now they're pinned and taking heavy fire from an advanced unit of Reaper scouts."

Shepard nodded toward the exit. "Walk with me? You can tell me the un- _alphus pria_ details on the way to medbay. If I wait any longer, you'll have to carry me, and I'll probably throw up on you."

He nods and lets her lead the way, prepared to catch her if she carries out her threat to pass out. She carries herself straight and strong, however, not showing a trace of injury until they reach the elevator where she collapses against the back wall.

"Okay, so why are they there? What can you tell me?" she asks, looking up at him from under heavily lidded eyes.

"I'm sorry, Commander, their mission is as classified as it gets." He hesitates again, his gut insisting that he just spill everything, and trust her to know that telling Wrex will shatter the alliance before it's even born. "It's vital that they be rescued and allowed to complete their mission. It's a matter of … " He swallows and hopes she lets him get away with it. "... galactic peace."

She sighs and nods. "I'll do what I can." The doors open, and she snaps straight, stumbling a little with her haste. He steps up, steadying her with an arm around her waist until she nods, and strides over the threshold. "You'll send all the information to my omnitool?"

He follows her to the medical bay. "I will. Your contact is Lt. Tarquin Victus."

She stops so quickly that he runs into her and has to lunge to keep her from falling flat on her face. Pulling away, she turns to look up into his eyes, hers bright with an emotion he can't identify. "Victus?"

"Yes, my youngest _pahir_. I needed someone I could trust completely." He holds out a hand, ushering her toward the medbay door, only a couple of metres away.

"You shouldn't have buried the lead, Primarch." She turns to continue, but reaches up to her radio. "Joker, we're already on course for Tuchanka?" She grunts, a soft sound of acknowledgement and approval. "Best possible speed, Flight Lieutenant, and I'm sure the Doc is going to put me out, so make sure to send me a wake up call four hours prior to arrival. Thanks."

She palms the door, then turns to nod. "Our ETA is fifteen hours, Primarch. We'll be ready to launch in the shuttle the second we arrive." She smiles. "Thanks for the escort."

He chuffs, followed by a soft chuckle. "Thanks for not throwing up on me." He watches after her until the door shuts, then heads straight for his bunk. He'll leave orders to be awakened if any messages come in, but he might as well catch what sleep he can before they arrive.


	3. Chapter Three -- Lies of Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why didn't you tell me about Cerberus and the bomb?" Something lurks beneath the suspicion and weariness in her eyes. It almost looks like hurt … as if she believes that he's betrayed her. His gut rolls, throat tightening: he has betrayed her.
> 
> "Why hide that?" She steps in even as he slides a foot back, struggling to buy himself space to maintain the mask of primarch. She doesn't allow it. "What else are you keeping from me?"
> 
> And he can't tell her. Out of necessity and desperation, but it's a betrayal nonetheless. He's asking her to save his pahir, and in return he offers her nothing but distrust and secrets. "I have nothing for you." The words come out only because he promises himself that if she doesn't hate him … if he hasn't destroyed her trust by the time the mission concludes, he'll offer her nothing but transparency and trust from then on. Spirits, he's despicable.

**Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

**Buratrum** _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

**Pahir** \- Son

**Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

* * *

Shepard returns from Tuchanka filthy and still in armour. She claps him on the shoulder as she marches past, but doesn't stop to talk. Her hasty silence doesn't fool him into believing that he's dodged any bullets. Once she's reported in, he's sure to face the gauntlet of her questions. He hears her reporting in to Admiral Hackett. Thirty of his _pahir's_ men down, Cerberus in control of the bomb in the middle of a heavily populated area.

Victus swallows hard enough that his throat clicks when Hackett expresses his gut feeling that there's more going on than they know. Spirits, as if Shepard's interrogation won't be brutal enough without her superiors pushing her to get them answers. At least Hackett tells Shepard to keep the krogan in the dark until they gain traction on the situation.

And then she marches from the comm room, the faint scent of flowers woven through the dust, sweat, and smoke. "Primarch." She stops at the inner edge of his personal space, the heat and scent coming off her … spirits, she is a _praela_ , and now he has to look the spirit of war in the face and lie.

For a moment the loathing for his position and the decision wraps a garotte around his throat, the ligature so tight he barely manages to croak out, "Excellent work on Tuchanka, Commander. I'm grateful that you—"

She lunges toward him, braced and sharp, a pike driven into the ground. "Why didn't you tell me about Cerberus and the bomb?" Something lurks beneath the suspicion and weariness in her eyes. It almost looks like hurt … as if she believes that he's betrayed her. His gut rolls, throat tightening: he has betrayed her.

"Why hide that?" She steps in even as he slides a foot back, struggling to buy himself space to maintain the mask of primarch. She doesn't allow it. "What else are you keeping from me?"

And he can't tell her. Out of necessity and desperation, but it's a betrayal nonetheless. He's asking her to save his _pahir_ , and in return he offers her nothing but distrust and secrets. "I have nothing for you." The words come out only because he promises himself that if she doesn't hate him … if he hasn't destroyed her trust by the time the mission concludes, he'll offer her nothing but transparency and trust from then on. Spirits, he's despicable.

She lurches back, stiff and angry, and for a split second her expression looks so injured that he feels as though he struck her. Then it vanishes, disappearing behind a professional distance that tears between his plates like a broken dagger. "For our alliance to work, I need to be able to trust you, sir." Her emphasis on the word _sir_ drives the knife deeper.

He takes a breath, reinforces the steel down his spine and pulls his head back, squaring his shoulders. "Our friendship is new, Commander. Neither one of us truly knows what to expect from the other, as much as we might want to believe that honour, discretion, and understanding might prevail." He steps into her that time, entering her space, the energy coming off of her as intoxicating as it is suspicious and frustrated. "Would you trust me with information that put the entire population of Earth at risk?"

She reaches up, fingers scratching the shell of her ear, then scrubbing beside her nose and around her mouth, the pressure leaving the skin red. "I already have, Primarch." Turning, she starts to walk away.

"These sorts of decisions weigh heavily on me, Commander." The words flow out of a yearning knot in the rolling pit of his gut and bounce straight off the steel that stares back at him. It takes every ounce of mettle he possesses to meet the fury that spins to face him. But he doesn't flinch, because he's a general in spirit and a primarch in name, and he needs her help ... maybe even her understanding. He clears his throat. "When I was a general, I could pass these things up the chain of command, but now I'm all I've got. Know what I mean?" His shrug is a casual lie that hide his hands' desire to wrap around her arms, pull her in, and to shake that terrible disappointment from her eyes.

The scorn that stares back at him, the lack of trust pulls the jagged blade free, then stabs him again, prying beneath his plates, but if she knew the truth …. No, the truth risks everything. Tarquin needs her, his unit too devastated to succeed in their mission and have a hope of coming back alive without her support.

A long breath whistles through her nose as she lifts her hands, a small helpless gesture. "Sure … and?" She leaves the air open, expectant, waiting for him to break the barrier of distrust.

"And that's all." He taps against the invisible wall, hesitating. What if trusting her is the right move? The words form on the end of his tongue, but then he swallows them. They taste like defeat and scrape down his esophagus like a handful of tacks.

"And that's all, Commander." The words cost him more than he imagined, and he'd give anything to take the disgust from her stare ... anything but his people.

She turns from him, fingers stabbing at her console, fury crackling like an aura of electricity. He watches her without lifting his eyes from his console, and for a moment it takes all of that fury to stop him from touching her shoulder. What would that lightning feel like racing up his arm? Would it hit hard enough to stop his heart?

Instead, Victus concentrates on his work. Reports come in from Tuchanka. Tarquin's XO and other members of his crew blame him for the crash, stating that he should have held with the initial course rather than trying to be clever and trying for a safer way around. Even Tarquin's own report is scathing of his performance.

The more he reads, heavier the burden of being his _pahir's_ example rests. What choice did Tarquin have, growing up with a _patrem_ who flaunted the established rules and tactics? Tarquin's XO concludes his report with a recommendation for review once they return to the fleet, as does Tarquin, himself. He glances up at Shepard. He should have told her the whole truth from the beginning.

At her station, Shepard softens, slowly and, judging by the way she keeps gnawing at her bottom lip, reluctantly. A half hour passes, the only sound in the war room the slight beeping from different computers, their operators monitoring the war's many fronts. He almost forgets she's standing less than three metres away as he digs into the afternoon's reports from Palaven and the many turian colonies. Most of them lodge in his gut, lumps of hopeless lead. The fleets are in retreat, playing cat and mouse with capital ships and destroyers that cost dozens of ships for a single kill.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when a message pings his inbox:

_To: Admiral Steven Hackett, Fifth Fleet._

_CC: Turian High Command, Cipritine, Palaven. Primarch Adrien Victus,_ SSV Normandy _._

_Subject: After-action Report Tuchanka, Turian Platoon S &R._

_Sender: Commander Jane Elizabeth Shepard, Council Spectre,_ SSV Normandy.

_Location: Tuchanka. Insertion coordinates: 51.052574 118.305413 Extraction coordinates: 51.071266 118.320629. Map attached._

_Mission Assigned by: Primarch Adrien Victus_

_Mission Contact: Lt. Tarquin Victus_

_Mission Details: …_

He reads how the shuttle dropped Shepard's team off, following the detailed timeline as they progressed through the mission. When he reaches the end, he can't help but smile when he sees the casualty report. _Enemy casualties: five harvesters, seven brutes, thirty two marauders, eighty three cannibals, one hundred and fifteen husks. Squad and allied casualties: One member of Ninth platoon at their main crash site while awaiting relief during the mission. Thirty two members of the Ninth Platoon lost in crash and during holding action prior to launch of S &R mission._

_Squad Performance: Officer Garrus Vakarian: Outstanding. Officer Vakarian continues to demonstrate superior weapon and tactical skills. He is unequaled in his ability to anticipate both friendly and enemy movements and adapt accordingly. A steady, anchoring presence within the squad._

_Lt. James Vega: Excellent. Although new to the_ Normandy's _compliment, Lt. Vega is fitting in far more quickly than anticipated. His weapon and tactical skills are outstanding, and his coordination within the team is all but seamless. Accepts orders and direction without hesitation contrary to my initial concerns._

_Personal Recommendations and Notes: Despite the opinions expressed by some of the surviving members of the Ninth Platoon and Lt. Victus, when the circumstances of the crash were explained to me, I failed to see any cause for the charges of negligence on Lt. Victus's part. Faced with a heavily defended approach to his objective, Lt. Victus opted to reroute onto a heading that presented a higher probability of successful navigation. That the enemy compensated to cover the secondary route and trapped the platoon's vessel, bringing it down, amounted to bad luck, the unavoidable casualties of war._

_Exceptional communication and intel sharing on the ground led to my squad locating and saving more than ten of the platoon's men along the path to the main crash site._

_Lt. Victus demonstrated outstanding skill in rallying his men, forming a solid defence that held out for more than a day against overwhelming enemy numbers. Despite their grumbling, his men owe their lives to his quick thinking and organizational/leadership skills. I feel certain once the grief and shock pull back, clearer heads will see that the lieutenant's decisions were sound._

_In conclusion, rather than seeing reason for censure or investigation, it is my opinion that Lt. Tarquin Victus performed his duty with reasoned, deliberate tactics and a level of skill that brought honour to his rank and his unit. The bravery and honour shown by both the lieutenant and his men under extremely hazardous conditions reflects most favourably on the turian military._

Finishing the report, Victus looks up at Shepard, head reeling, overwhelmed with gratitude. His son's disgrace vanishes in a single report. Despite nothing compelling her to send her report to the hierarchy, she had. When she glances up at him, their gazes hold for a moment before she nods and turns back to her work. He follows her lead, filing away her report before digging into the fleet deployments and civilian evacuation data.

He loses track of time, unknown hours passing before a gentle hand touches his arm, and he looks into emerald eyes; concern eclipsing anger in their depths. "Primarch, how long has it been since you ate something?"

He shrugs, not wanting to admit to either of them that he forgot to eat. He doesn't even know how long they've been working there in the silence, but his legs ache and his spine feels as though someone has poured molten metal down through it. "I'm fine, thank you, Commander." He nods toward his console. "I'll grab something when I'm finished here."

A firm headshake denies him his retreat and evasion. "Come on, I haven't had anything since a couple pieces of toast first thing."

"No, really." He backs up, not wanting to sit in the galley amongst strangers, all of whom treat him like some sort of dignitary rather than a fellow soldier. At least with his own soldiers, he shared a camaraderie that transcended some of the isolation imposed by rank. On the _Normandy_ , he shares very little with even fewer, and he wonders if he shouldn't return to the fleet, coordinate things from there.

He doesn't allow himself to consider the other reason he turns her down. The confusion and guilt and shame hang too close and burn too hot.

Shepard's jaw tightens, showing a stubborn determination he's learning to recognize, and she slips her hand through his elbow. Even as she guides him to the door, her hand lifts to her comms. "Ensign Copeland, could you manage to rustle up a levo and a dextro MRE and deliver them to my cabin, please? Meatloaf for me, and anything but those horrid meat gruel pellets that Garrus likes." She shudders, but Victus perks.

"Meat gruel pellets? _Surbicum_?" It's the best of the dextro MRE's hands down.

Shepard laughs and shakes her head. "I take that back, Ensign. One meatloaf and one wretched meat gruel pellets." Pausing, she smiles at the air. "Good man, thank you. Oh, and some freeze dried ice cream."

After closing the call, she holds out a hand to usher him through the war room door. "Your son is safe, his mission—secret though it may be—is going ahead tomorrow, and nothing on Palaven is going to change if you stop to eat."

Stepping ahead of her, he smiles, the expression such a relief that he realizes he must have been clenching his mandibles for at least an hour. "I don't suppose pulling rank will work?" he asks, knowing the answer. She's a force of nature, and such things don't care for anything as mundane as protocol. The blade twists in his chest.

Her grin flashes, easy and bright despite the fatigue lining her face. "Not in the least. You're not my commanding officer … heck, you're not even my primarch. You're my guest, and that means making sure you don't starve to death while aboard my ship."

"Very well," he relents. It's late, as she says, and the noises coming from his stomach are reminiscent of a pack of klixen.

As they wait for the scanner to search them for weapons, Shepard nods to the soldiers guarding the war room. "How are you ladies holding up?" she asks, teasing them a little. "Did the chocolate-covered espresso beans help with the boredom or just make you jittery?"

Pvt. Westmoreland chuckles and ducks her head a little, bashful if he reads her scent correctly. "They were lovely, ma'am, thank you. Very … stimulating." She grins, losing some of the shyness when Shepard laughs.

"Do you keep a stash of chocolate on board, ma'am, or do you just get care packages from fans?" Pvt. Campbell's smile says that she suspects the latter to be the answer. Victus watches Shepard's face to see. What he sees eases any worries or ridiculous, baseless jealousy.

Making a face, Shepard answers, "Only one fan, albeit a fanatic in the true sense. A fellow named Conrad Verner seems to be able to find me pretty much anywhere in the galaxy, and leaves me these huge crates of chocolate, bath products, and linens … even a fuzzy bathrobe in the last one. It's creepy, but he does have excellent taste." Laughing, she proceeds past the grid and walks to the door. Just before she steps over the threshold, she turns back. "You ladies need some decent shampoo or soap, just let me know. There's a lavender-mint that's pure heaven."

"Fans, Commander?" Victus asks once the door closes. Not that he doesn't understand why.

"Fans," she says, the word trailing out along a sigh as resigned as the slow grind of time. "It's thanks to the Alliance plastering my face everywhere as the Reaper War poster girl, and it's only getting worse." She leads the way into the elevator, hits the control, and then sort of flops back into the corner. "Letters, hundreds at first, then thousands." Tipping her head back against the corner, she closes her eyes.

"You're the face of hope," he says, understanding the burden. His talons reach out, gripping her shoulder before he can wrestle them back to his side, but then she smiles, eyes still closed, and leans into the contact ever so slightly.

"Do you mind if I take a shower before our supper arrives, sir?" she asks, leading the way into a large, comfortable cabin. Even as a general, he's never had one its equal. "I have Reaper guts in my hair and teeth." She leads the way down to the lower part of the cabin before turning to face him.

"Not at all." Despite the casual nature of his reply, he isn't sure how he feels about it. On a turian ship, her question could constitute a proposition. Surely she doesn't mean for it to go there, does she?

She points to the bottom drawer on the desk next to her bed, answering his worry as she says, "There is some dextro-friendly liquor in that drawer and some glasses. And here … " She bends to move a small controller to the edge of the table. "... is the remote for the vid screen. We have a wide variety of vids in the database if you don't want to watch the news." A bright smile shines through the filth covering her face. "Even a ton of turian action vids thanks to Garrus's love of massive explosions."

Jealousy twists his gut again, despite the fact that neither she nor Garrus seem to harbour romantic feelings for one another. "Thank you, Commander."

She holds out her arms. "Make yourself at home. I won't be long."

When she disappears into the washroom, he reaches down for the controller, eventually settling on an old favourite: a vid about a small squad of turians stranded on a moon during the Krogan Rebellion. It's very light on explosions, but heavy on story. It was the first vid he and Lanira watched together as teens.

After pouring himself a drink, he sits in a chair that affords him a view of the vid screen and the washroom door. The cabin's relaxed, comfortable atmosphere eases him down into the chair, the brandy helping it along. Spirits, it feels as though it's been a lifetime since he just sat and stared at a vidscreen. If he concentrates, he can imagine there's no war, just a quiet evening with a new friend.

Someone knocks at the door, but before he can call out to ask if she wants him to answer it, she hurries from the washroom, wrapped in a very fuzzy bathrobe. No doubt, _the_ bathrobe. He grins and shakes his head. It's pink.

"Thank you, Ensign. You have a good gamma shift," Shepard says, and the door closes. A few seconds later, she passes him a tray, a sly grin playing at one side of her mouth. "Your meat gruel pellets, Primarch."

He chuckles and nods. "Thank you, Commander. They really are the best dextro MRE." The face she makes provokes another, lighter, laugh. Just a quiet evening with a new friend. He peels the lid back on the container and inhales the steam, a slow purr of appreciation rolling through his second larynx. He glances up, heart pounding far too hard and fast for the occasion. "And since we're just eating dinner, it's Adrien."

She peels back the lid on her own meal, then meets his eyes, a stiff nod acknowledging him. "Jane should do well enough then." She looks up at the vid screen. "So, what are we watching, Adrien?"

He's not even fully aware of what he tells her, the sound of her saying his name ringing and deafening inside his head.

* * *

Metal screams as it's rent, the clamp on the bomb's detonator tears loose, the giant hunk of metal falling … his _pahir_ … Tarquin falls … .

The picture goes black but for a few streaks of light as Shepard claps her hand over her suit camera, but next to it, Vakarian's shows the rest of Tarquin's fall, the detonator crashing down on top of him, exploding on impact.

Victus leans into the console, gasping as all the air and heat in the war room disappear into the pits of _buratrum_. His mind burrows into the past even as his eyes remain riveted to the scene on Tuchanka as Shepard, her squad, and the remaining Ninth Platoon secure the bomb.

_The sky shines a light mauve-blue in the high mountain forests above Darcelin, continental capital of Fortus Tempesi. Eleven-cycle-old Terion climbs a massive_ lafolitectus _with the strength and speed of a pyjak. Tarquin ignores Victus's command to stay on the ground and follows, calling out for his brother to wait. Frantic, Victus runs to pluck him from the branches. Tar's too small to reach and falls from eight metres up. He lies so very still, his tiny body so broken. Victus sits by his bed twenty-seven hours a day for five days before he wakes._

He won't wake from this fall. A black hole opens at Victus's core, screaming even as he schools his face into dispassionate stoicism, the empathy in the glances sent his way bouncing off that mask. A keen erupts, smashing through his control, but he forces it to remain subvocal and unheard, even though he can tell by the reactions of the humans that they feel it. He concentrates on keeping his knees and ankles locked ... and on breathing … those two simple things taking everything his possesses.

"Wasn't the genophage enough?"

Victus isn't sure how much time has passed when Wrex storms through the door and across the war room, his momentum and fury threatening to become a charge.

"You had to plant massive bombs on my planet?" Wrex pulls up just short of mowing straight over Victus, carmine eyes aflame with indignant rage. He looms, thunder and lightning roiling in the clouds, prepared to strike.

Victus faces the krogan, holding tight to his calm. "We couldn't risk another galactic war with the krogan." Searching Wrex's eyes for shreds and traces of reason, he sighs. "They were placed there over a thousand cycles ago. So much has changed." He slides one foot back. "Times have changed."

The storms crests the hill, building rather than dissipating, poised to roll in, leaving destruction in its wake. "Not enough to warn us about the bomb, coward."

"Wrex!" Shepard's voice echoes off the bulkheads, the room focusing it in on them. "Back down, or so help me … ."

The krogan whirls on her even as she strides toward them, bringing ice and fire to battle the krogan's own elements. "You're going to stand up for him? After he lied?"

A furious hand slices through the accusation before it lands. "At the end of the rebellions, your people were using mass drivers to destroy turian colonies from orbit, bombarding women and children with asteroids because you wanted to take their homes for yourselves." Stepping right up so that their armour scrapes together, she lunges into Wrex, a finger stabbing into his face. "If you were in the turians' place, you'd have done something worse to ensure they didn't recover and come back to obliterate you."

Whirling around, she faces Victus, that loaded finger turning to focus on him even as her stare returns to burn through the clan chief. "His son died today to make it right." Softening in the blink of an eye, she steps back, her voice as soft as it was roaring the moment before. "When was the last time a krogan sacrificed himself for a turian?"

Victus steps forward. "Commander, it's fine." He's not sure what he even means, other than that he longs for the terrible electricity in the air to dissipate. When Shepard looks at him, he sees that his time is coming. She has taken his side merely to preserve the peace. She knows she can back Wrex down, apply pressure to one side to swing the entire problem around.

She grips Wrex by the armour and thumps her forehead against his crest, lightly and without challenge. "We have bigger enemies to fight, old friend, and the genophage to cure."

The krogan harrumphs, a small roar, but then returns the bump, spins and stalks away.

"You lied to me," Shepard says once Wrex is too far to hear. She doesn't look at Victus, but leans into the console next to him, heels of her hands braced against the metal. "If you'd trusted me, even for a second, your son might still be alive." Shaking her head, she pushes away from the console. "I brought you here to help me fight the secrets and cut through the politics, Primarch."

Facing her, Victus nods, but can only meet her stare for a moment. "My apologies, Commander. You're right. It was a mistake not to trust you as you trusted me." Knowing that there are no words to right his wrong, he glances up into the remarkable, exhausted green of her eyes before turning away. He needs to contact Terion. He needs to … . The thought disappears into the black hole, the fissure at his heart letting out a howl as it gobbles it down.

At the top of the stairs, her gravity stops him, turning him around. "Commander?"

She looks up, her back bowed, head appearing too heavy for her neck.

"My _pahir_ died with the respect of his men … with the respect of the hierarchy." He swallows, the words bitter-sweet. "Thank you for that." His breath whistles through his nose as he gulps down another swallow, that one a volatile mixture of air and shards of jagged sorrow. "His sacrifice will be recorded in the histories of the Ninth Platoon, something any _patrem_ would be proud of." He steps back. "It's … it's the best any _patrem_ can hope for in war."

"Yes, sir," she says, her voice still sharp enough to cut despite the softness of its volume.

He recalls nothing of his conversation with Terion. They remain professional: a superior officer reporting a death in the family. He's delivered thousands of them over the cycles. This one should be different. It should be in person, and keening … a soft one escapes under his breath before he can close his teeth on it. He should have told Terion that he loved him. It should have been a call from a _patrem_ to a _pahir_ , but he knows that call would shatter him, and he can't fall apart.

He's the primarch. A lot of other parents are losing their children every second. He can't be selfish enough to make others pay for his grief.

Shepard remains working at her terminal when Victus returns and tries to focus on his work. After a half hour, he manages to fight the pain back until it's a distant, pervasive ache. It's not much, but it's enough to get the job done. He needs to get the job done.

The after-action reports arrive from the Ninth Platoon. Adrien stares at the QEC console, talons hanging in midair over it, his eyes seeing nothing but the imagine of Tarquin falling to his death, frozen forever in the moment before Shepard covered the camera, trying to spare him. His brave, beautiful _pahir_. He wouldn't trade it—that pain—despite feeling as though it will stop his heart. His _pahir_ purchased so many lives, and maybe all of Palaven … maybe even the entire galaxy, with his courage. And because he feels it, some other father doesn't have to.

Still, he knows the hole punched through his chest will never close over, his soul bleeding out in millimetres. The wound from Lanira's death still bleeds, their child's blood now intertwining with hers.

"General?" Shepard's voice is soft, losing the razor edge from moments before. Adrenaline-fueled anger has settled in favour of the poignant music of empathy and grief. It touches him, an ache that soothes even as it burns. She steps up beside him, and his hand drops to his side. "Despite everything, I'm very sorry for your loss."

She takes a few, noisy breaths through her nose, then the outside of her hand brushes his. "It's not the best a father can hope for." Turning slightly toward her, he sees her swallow hard, and she opens and closes her mouth a couple of times. "Even a turian father can hope for more … and even during war." She steps away and straightens her back, rolling her shoulders. "But he did you proud. He did us all proud."

After another second, she turns to face him, and reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. "If you need someone to talk to or to just take up space while things explode on a vid screen, you're welcome to knock on my door."

She smiles as their eyes meet. He nods, unable to force a 'thank you' past the strangling grip on his throat. Answering his nod with one of her own, Shepard turns and leaves.


	4. Chapter Four -- Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Primarch?" Shepard strides to the stairs, looking up at him through the metal grating. "You don't have to leave, sir." She tips her head toward the space behind her. "You're welcome to share my cave."
> 
> He hesitates, but she climbs up a few steps and waves him down. "Can't sleep, either?" Nothing of her earlier anger remains. She smiles, and he's not sure he's ever seen anything more beguiling. "I have dual-chirality alcohol." She ends the statement on an upnote obviously meant to tempt.
> 
> Answering that with a soft chuff, he follows her down. "An impossible offer to refuse."

**Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Buratrum** _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

 **Pahir** \- Son

 **Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

 **Preteril** \- A small, spiny ground burrowing marsupial analogue found in high meadow and forest lands.

 **Mallupean** \- A turian song composed to honour the deceased. It is usually written and sung (keened) by their closest loved one(s) as an act of devotion to both the individual and the relationship. It is made up of three parts in a vaguely sonata-esque form.

 **Puer** \- Pueri plural. Child

 **Matrula** \- Mother (Familiar form **Mari** equivalent to mom)

* * *

Sleep dodges him like a _preteril_ in its maze of tunnels. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees, not Tarquin, but Lanira's face just before she died. She'd been called up despite still being on leave after Tar's birth. A plague on one of the most distant colonies. They'd both reported to relief efforts. He walked away, she did not.

" _Be a better father than you are a soldier," she whispers through the fever and pain. "You need to love them enough for both of us, Adrien." Her talons whisper the length of his face, then drop to the damp sheets, too weak._

_He catches them. "I will." He stares, trying to see his strong, fierce mate in that ravaged shell. But he promises, and he clings to her talons until the last breath leaves her._

Finally after two hours, he can endure no more. He flings back the blankets and leaps straight to his feet. No more. Glancing at his chrono, he sees that it's 02:13:24.

Sitting still is no better than lying still, so he spurns the work on the table and heads out the door, no destination in mind, spurred on by the need to outrun the pain. Shock—at least he thinks it's shock—keeps him numb, his mind silent as he walks, concentrating only on the vibrations of the ship … the smells and noises around him. They're human smells and human noises for the most part, but still, similar enough to a turian ship that it calms the ache—the feeling of separation and isolation—a little.

A half hour later, he looks up to find himself on the engineering deck, heading down the stairs between the two sets of doors. He pauses on the landing, wondering what pulled him out of his exhausted fugue. The gentle beeps and blips of someone using a datapad answers that question.

He turns to head back up, not wanting to intrude.

Before he makes it out of sight, he hears, "Primarch?" Shepard strides to the stairs, looking up at him through the metal grating. "You don't have to leave, sir." She tips her head toward the space behind her. "You're welcome to share my cave."

He hesitates, but she climbs up a few steps and waves him down. "Can't sleep, either?" Nothing of her earlier anger remains. She smiles, and he's not sure he's ever seen anything more beguiling. "I have dual-chirality alcohol." She ends the statement on an upnote obviously meant to tempt.

Answering that with a soft chuff, he follows her down. "An impossible offer to refuse." At the bottom of the stairs he takes a deep breath, his shoulders dropping when he exhales. The _Normandy's_ vibrations surround him so tightly, the air sits so still, the energy so calm … the space feels like an embrace.

A cot and a makeshift desk hide within the recesses. Datapads cover the desk, but Shepard sweeps them up and dumps them onto the cot. "Welcome to my cave, Primarch." She gestures toward the crate. "Please."

He perches on the corner. "This place … it feels … ."

"Like some magical little grotto hidden away from the world?" Shepard finishes and then lets out a self-conscious little chuckle. "Well, except it's on a ship. Annnnd, now I sound insane." A shrug ripples across her shoulders, mesmerizing in its elegance. "I come here to deal with the things that feel too big and overwhelming in my cabin." She lifts a datapad as if it contains one of the too-big-things, and pulls it into her lap, turning it over in her hands.

Shifting back onto the crate a little further, Victus leans back against the bulkhead. "Too big and overwhelming?" He chuffs, a gentle roar lacking any humour. "So everything other than ship operations, then?"

Shepard reaches down, lifting a bottle of alcohol from the floor. She tosses back a long swallow straight from the bottle, then holds it out. "Pretty much everything since Saren showed up on Eden Prime, yeah."

He drinks, the liquor unusual but with a sweet, comforting flavour and a solid burn, then sets it on the side of the crate where she can reach it. "What is the overwhelming everything tonight?" he asks, nodding toward the datapads. It doesn't occur to him until after he speaks that it might not be any of his business.

But instead of brushing him off, she passes him the datapad. "Remember my mentioning being the Reaper War poster girl?" She picks up another pad, her expression so exquisitely exhausted and sorrowful, that he almost moves to sit next to her. "They're messages. Thousands of them routed to me through a million different means."

He looks down at the open message, reading under his breath, his human common rusty at best. "Dear Commander Shepard. My name is Angelica Marron, and I lived in Toronto before the war. My daughter and I managed to escape on an evac shuttle and now live in a refugee camp deep in the forest by the Quebec border. My husband joined the resistance. We heard from him a few times in the beginning, but not for weeks now. Please, if you could find out anything. I don't know where else to turn. Everyone just says that communications are restricted to official military use. His name is Edward Terrence Marron. He's forty years old." He stops reading as the woman describes her missing spouse.

The next one is from an eight-year-old boy named Hasim, writing to ask her to find his dog that had to be left behind when they fled the colony on Elysium." His heart breaks as he looks up at Shepard. "You read them all?" he asks, his voice mostly subvocals of support and affection.

She nods, but he doesn't see sorrow there … or at least, not just sorrow. "The pet ones I send on to a friend who runs a war orphan pet rescue. The military ones on Earth I send to Anderson, just in case."

"There's no way you can help these people, Jane." He pours a long draught of the liquor down his throat, the amber liquid burning away some of the raw chill setting in behind his keel. He holds out the bottle.

Warm, soft fingers brush his talons as she accepts it. "No, but I can listen, even if they're merely calling out into the dark." She drinks down a good couple of fingers out of the bottle before setting it down. "And some of them are just letters of support, wishes for the health and safety of the crew out here. Some are completely hilarious … I hope intentionally. I get some that ask me how they can help, or if I'll give them a recommendation to this or that unit." She chuckles and takes another drink. "Get lots asking to serve on the _Normandy,_ including several from vorcha, elcor, hanar … they all want to help."

He sees it then, as he takes a drink and scrolls down to read the remainder. She reads them to stay connected to everyone out there beyond the politicking and overwhelming odds. Near the end of the list, one message pulls a reluctant chuckle from behind the barricade in his throat. "Those Reaper bastards," he reads out loud, "destroyed the af-guh-han I'd spent the better part of five months ki-nitting. Kick their sorry asses back to hell."

Shepard's answering laugh warms him and feeds the black hole howling in his chest. "That's Elsie. She writes every few days to tell me how hard decent yarn is to find, and bring me up to date on her knitting projects for the refugees. She tells me to stay safe and kick the Reapers back to hell. Keeps threatening to send me socks."

They sit there for another hour, passing the bottle and reading out loud, sharing something quiet, something that he can't name, but he finds that he doesn't care to force it into a compartment, unlike the rest of his life. Since his sons entered the academy, he hasn't been the father he should have been. He's been the general, and now it's too late to make that up to Tarquin. Those messages, those wishes … so tiny in the scope of leading the races through the war … of being primarch … but each shining as bright as a star in the black … they fill him with a fire to do so much better.

When Shepard falls asleep sprawled across the cot, he covers her with the blanket folded at the end and returns to Life Support. And he sleeps.

* * *

"There's another insomniac on the Normandy, I'd like you to meet," Shepard says two nights later when Victus arrives in their hidey hole. It's theirs now. He feels comfortable and sheltered there, unable to even settle to sleep before spending time there, with her.

The genophage cure is still days distant, and they're on their way to the Citadel with a cargo hold full of teenagers Shepard rescued from Cerberus. The night before he listened to her process having to deal with a ton of scared kids and their bravery and guts in the face of the fight … of having to send them into war, albeit in a supporting role. He suspects it that much harder because of Tar's sacrifice, and her empathy for his suffering.

And he knows she senses it, despite the good, stoic turian mask he solders into place. He knows, because she reaches out to him constantly, fingertips grazing his arm or brushing the outside of his hand. Spirits, how he relishes every one, each a point of connection that helps keep the keens lodged in his throat, his mind at least mostly clear and focused on the work.

When she stands to leave their den, he hesitates. "Where will we find this fellow insomniac?" He forces a smile to hide his reluctance to leave the space, to include another in _their_ time.

She holds out her hand, the gesture the perfect bait to lure him out. He slips his talons into her grip: it's strong and warm, and he'll follow her through hell just to hold onto that connection for another moment. Spirits, how long has it been since his heart raced and blood flowed through his veins, heated through with life?

" _Don't die with me, Adrien. Our_ pahirs _deserve so much better than that."_

He almost lets go, but Shepard tightens her hold on him. That grip pulls him up the stairs and into the elevator, not releasing him until the carriage arrives on the crew deck. His talons follow her hand a few centimetres before he manages to wrestle them back in line and sticks them to his side.

"I finally got a chance to spend some time with Eve today," she explains, staying at his side as they round the elevator into the galley. It sits empty, most of the crew asleep or spending their down time in the lounges. Her fingers touch the back of his arm as her mention of the female krogan registers.

Spirits, he's not sure he can deal with the krogan female's suffering on top of his own. Those gentle fingers on the back of his sleeve don't offer him a choice, however, and then he's standing in the soft, dim lights of medbay.

The female, Eve, is awake, as Shepard predicted, slipping down off her bed when they enter. "Commander, I see you aren't able to sleep, either," she says.

Shepard chuckles and strides over to take the krogan's offered wrist. "At least Mordin seems to have taken some down time."

"I threatened to use that silver tape he's so fascinated with to secure him to a bunk for ten hours unless he went willingly for six." She finishes with a deep, throaty chuckle, her large amber eyes focusing on Victus. Something in that stare calms his concerns. She bears her suffering with grace and wisdom, and he thinks he sees Shepard's reason for introducing them.

"Shaman," Shepard says, holding a hand out to usher Victus forward, "I'd like you to meet Primarch Adrien Victus. Primarch, the shaman of the female Urdnot." She retreats to fetch chairs for them both as the krogan returns to sit on her bed.

"How are things on Tuchanka?" Shepard asks. "Have the Reapers moved into Urdnot territory deep enough to threaten the female clans?"

"The Reapers are still scouting for the most part, they seem unwilling to engage the krogan directly." Her shoulders square with a deserved pride; Victus wants to get the krogan on Palaven for a reason. "Wrex ordered a secure camp built in the center of the deep tunnels under the silo, and moved them down there, so they're safe for now."

The shaman laughs, low and beautiful, a lullaby of sound that relaxes Victus into his chair as she opens her omnitool. "One of the mothers sent me this just a few hours ago." A vid appears, pups playing in the sand, little round krogan, naked and full of giggles and life as they roll around, chasing and wrestling.

Adrien stares at it, a starving _torin_ seated at a banquet, and as he watches, silent, healing tears fall. Tarquin lives inside every one of those little balls of joy and life. The vid shakes a little, the comforting rumble of the female chuckling explaining the picture's tremble.

"That is your son's legacy," the shaman says, voice low and serious rather than slanted with sympathy. Her lack of emotion, her declaration of fact, hits him harder than emotion could have.

Shepard reaches across the centimetres separating them to squeeze his talons. Just a quick pressure, then gone. How does she know? How does she always know? And with all the burdens and concerns she faces every day, how does she find time … no, not how … why. Why does she spend time worrying about him?

A volatile cocktail of joy and grief surging through his veins, he looks at the woman next to him and understands something about war that perhaps always knew somewhere in the back of his mind but never processed. Shepard embodies its spirit because she embodies compassion, love, and kindness in addition to her ferocity, honour, and thirst for justice. And while those 'softer' virtues form the reasons the fight grinds her down, they're also the reasons that she's the one to lead them.

She glances over, meeting his eyes, one corner of her lips twitching into a tiny smile, and Victus realizes he's in love.

* * *

Until the war room empties, the crew on shore leave, Victus doesn't realize how much life their quiet presence brought to the space. Even Wrex is on the Citadel, his special form of jovial abuse missed.

Shepard shifts at her station, straightening and stretching. "All right, I can't avoid it any longer. I'm headed to the embassies for a meeting with Udina before a more pleasant visit to Huerta Memorial to see Major Alenko." She nods toward the door, a beckon. "Come with me. If you don't want to share the wonder of political discussion, you can shoot things in the Spectre Office range or wander the markets."

He shakes his head. The Citadel feels like too much. Too many people, too many refugees, too much grief and fear. A tenuous equilibrium has settled over him since speaking to Eve the night before.

As usual, Shepard won't take no for an answer. "You've been locked on this ship for almost two weeks. Come with me. After I'm finished with my work, we'll take a little shore leave … meet up with Garrus for a meal, maybe head over to the Armax to shoot some things." Hooking a hand through his elbow, she threatens to lead him toward the door. "So, come willingly and get a chance to finish what you're doing here first, or get dragged away now."

Victus sighs, resignation flowing from his talons upwards on that breath. "I need the Alliance to give me an official rank," he grumbles, but without heat. As much as he doesn't want to face the press of crowds, the idea of spending some time with Shepard, and even Garrus, in a more relaxed atmosphere proves too much to resist. He hasn't shot a weapon in almost two weeks, and the lure of fighting at her side, even against holograms, tips the scales. Still, he glares at her, not wanting to give in too easily. "I'll need ten minutes to finish up what I'm doing."

She grins and releases him. "I'll meet you at the airlock in twenty."

He looks back to his terminal. That morning he woke needing to express all his grief and pride and love, so began to write a _mallupean_ for Tarquin. Two and a half of the movements complete, it needs only a few more lines. The words come easily, pouring from him, and when it's complete, he sends it to Terion along with a request for a QEC meeting the next night. Time and fate may be no kinder to him or his elder son, so time to truly keep his promise to Lanira.

Shepard meets him at the airlock, but instead of heading for her meeting with Udina, she takes him down to one of the refugee camps. "You can give Garrus a hand," she says. Even though she doesn't look at him, he can hear her smile in her words. "He'll keep you out of trouble for me."

As much as he dreads the tight press of bodies and desperation and grief, when he reaches the camp, the atmosphere hangs lighter, more hopeful, than he'd expected. In addition, hiding out on the _Normandy_ has blessed him with an anonymity Fedorian would have killed for.

"You don't know my Feruxa," an elderly _torin_ says to a batarian seated next to him on a crate. "If she's alive, she's giving them a _praela's_ fury. A hundred and twenty and still fires ten out of ten headshots at the range. When those damned monsters landed on our street, she dragged one of the yard-chairs out front and sat there, her old rifle in her hands, picking them off."

Shepard chuckles, echoing his surprised mirth, and slips her hand through Victus's elbow. "Glad she's on our side."

Leaving him with Vakarian, Shepard promises to return in a couple of hours. The time passes in what feels like moments when Garrus puts him to work, forcing him to dust off his field medic skills. Once the wounded are resting as comfortably as possible or farmed out to hospitals all over the Citadel, he sets his teeth into the task of rerouting supplies that are being held in customs. He's still arguing with no fewer than five bureaucrats at the same time when Shepard walks up to his makeshift crate-desk in a shipping container office and startles him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Looks like you found a way to make yourself useful," she says, leaving her hand in place.

He nods and smiles, a genuine grin. Actually helping his people hands on, not at a distance by shuffling numbers and pieces on a board, eases some of the pressure in his chest. Again, he wonders, how does she know? Truly, how does she know exactly what he needs?

"It's been a fruitful afternoon, I think. If you give me a second, I should be able to finalize getting several shiploads of supplies released from turian customs and distributed to the camps."

She squeezes his shoulder and shakes her head. "You're quite the fellow, Primarch Victus, and I'm honoured to know you." Leaving him to sort his supply issues, she wanders over to sit with a wounded _tarin_ , the mother trying to comfort her terrified _pueri_. Within two minutes, all three of them laugh along with the commander as she tells them a story about searching pyjaks for some lost piece of tech. Judging by the expression on Vakarian's face as the story continues, at least some of the humour comes at his expense.

Finished, flushed with the heady intoxicant of success, Victus stands, stretches, and heads out to tell Vakarian that C-Sec will deliver the materials within the hour. When he turns, he sees Shepard standing at the end of the row of containers, waiting. He tries to move to her, but it takes him nearly fifteen minutes. Once the refugees realize that he is leaving, many of them reach out to clasp wrists, others calling to him, and he can do nothing but pause with each one. Nor does he wish to do anything else. The war will wait for a little compassion. It will always wait.

When he reaches Shepard, he frowns. "Isn't Garrus coming with us?" he asks.

"He's coming right behind us." She looks ahead, a crowd is gathered at the lounge where the refugees post pictures of their lost. "But I need to confess something, first." Instead of speaking, she holds a hand out to indicate the crowd standing at the end of the dock.

His gaze follows her gesture, his frown deepening for a moment, the mystery refusing to untangle until he begins to recognize faces. Urdnot Wrex, and the female shaman … the salarian scientist, Mordin … the Marine, Lt. Vega … others from the crew. Brow plates leaping toward his crest, he picks out Councillors Sparatus and Udina.

"Shepard?" he says, feeling the jaws of a trap spread open before him, the commander ushering him into its teeth.

Clinging far too tightly to her enigmatic smile, she merely gestures again. That time Vega taps on the shoulder of a turian who stands with his back to them.

"Terion." His son's name escapes as the _torin_ turns, then hurries over to grip Victus by the shoulders, embracing him. "Terion," he repeats, stunned, his brain and body numb.

" _Pari_." His _pahir_ leans in to touch brows, and the spell breaks, feeling and thought returning, and he returns the embrace.

"What are you doing here?" he finally manages to say. "You were ferrying civilians to the safe harbours." Despite finding his voice, he doesn't step away, completely content to hold his _pahir._

Terion pulls away far too soon, turning a smile and a cocked brow plate toward Shepard. "Someone told the hierarchy my presence on the Citadel was essential to the war effort and convinced the Councillor to expedite my travel arrangements."

Shepard holds out her hand again, ushering them on. "I believe it is customary for those touched by the life of the loved one to attend the _mallupean_?" She moves to stand next to Garrus, and the entire docking bay seems to fall silent.

She brought them all there for Tarquin. A bolus of emotion presses at the back of his throat, strangling his voice, so it's Terion who begins, his warm, rich baritone singing in the closed dialect, the keening striking so much deeper for it not being filtered through translators. His _pahir's_ arm gripping his eases the pressure enough that he joins in. They sing the _expositux_ , releasing their grief and anger at the universe taking someone so loved and so young far too soon. Terion falls silent as Victus sings of his own guilt, of the blame he places on himself for putting his youngest child in a position of such danger … of his lies preventing Shepard from helping as she might have.

As the first movement reaches its end, he feels scoured clean, ready to begin the _pragrusan_ , the movement that celebrates all the beauty and good Tarquin brought into the galaxy. Victus's heart soars, because there is just so much of it. His son made the galaxy a brighter, safer, more hopeful place, even in his death, and not just through the gallantry of his actions. His _pahirs_ both possess beautiful, generous spirits that humble him and honour their _matrula_.

Terion leads Victus into the _conlectix._ They say their goodbyes, and as they do, the hole through the primarch's heart—through the _patrem's_ heart—closes a little more. Not all the way, but it will never close all the way. He embraces Terion, touching brows once more.

"I'm glad you're here, Terion. I've missed you," he whispers, the words meant _patrem_ to _pahir_.

Shepard clasps Terion's wrist when Victus steps back. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Lt. Commander Victus. I'm just sorry it has to be under these circumstances."

"And you. Didn't think I'd get to meet _the_ Commander Shepard." His _pahir's_ laugh echoes softly. "I feel like I should be asking you to mark my armour or something."

"When do you return to your fleet?" Shepard asks, gesturing for them all to follow to the elevator. "We have an evening of actual shore leave planned, if you'd like to join us."

Victus grins when his _pahir_ slings an arm around his cowl. "I don't leave until morning, and I'd like that, Commander, thank you."

Shepard takes them to a small replica of an Earth diner where the chef specializes in creating versions of human junk food appropriate for every race. Shepard dares them all to allow her to order, an agreement that meets with a lot of good-natured grumbling, but yields excellent results. They all agree, however, that she garners far too much pleasure from watching them struggle with the dextro version of chocolate milk shakes.

Garrus knocks the wind out of her with a well-placed elbow jab when she finally shows them mercy by passing over straws that work for their mouths. Victus watches her across the table, relishing every small quirk of expression, every turn of tone and phrase, cherishing the opportunity to see her unguarded. Rather than feeling the gnawing bite of jealousy, he finds himself grateful for Vakarian's presence, their long, trusting friendship providing a buffer that allows Shepard to relax in a way she never does when she's alone with him.

Conversation during dinner covers nearly every subject but the war, a fact for which he's grateful, and in the arena, they fall into a natural, easy camaraderie that flows beautifully. None of them are surprised when she leads them to three straight victories that max out the score board.

"I have a meeting in the morning that might interest you, Primarch," Shepard says as they linger outside the arena. Despite his weariness, Victus finds himself unwilling to shatter the jovial companionship binding the four of them together.

He yawns, covering it as quickly as possible, but not fast enough to prevent Vakarian and Terion from catching it. A bright smile making her beautiful, Shepard cackles and shakes her head. "Yep, never gets old."

True to what she's told him, Vakarian hauls off and punches her in the shoulder hard enough to send her stumbling. It just makes her laugh harder. When she recovers, Shepard meets and holds Victus's gaze. "What do you say, Primarch? Investigate a mystery with me in the morning?"

Terion bumps him with his shoulder. "I have a hotel room; you could bunk with me."

Outgunned, Victus lets out a long, rolling sigh and nods. "Of course, Commander."

Her smile widens. "Excellent, I'll meet you two at the hotel restaurant for breakfast? 0700?"

Arrangements made, they part ways, Shepard and Vakarian teasing one another over who got the most head shots as they walk to the transit stand.

Victus and his _pahir_ are in the hotel room less than a minute when Terion turns to face him, his mandibles low, fluttering softly. "Have you told her?" he asks. When Victus walks to the window, staring out over the wards rather than answering, his _pahir_ lets out a long sigh. "You should, _Pari_. None of us have the luxury of promised tomorrows."

Victus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, savouring Terion's presence, his unique energy. It's been far too long since they spent any time together. "It was a good night," he says.

"Don't change the subject." Terion steps up next to him, bronze eyes—so much like his _mari's_ —staring out over the bustling crowds. "I think you know the esteem with which she holds you." Talons grip his shoulder. "Don't waste any time; it's so short."

Victus glances at his _pahir_ , one brow plate cocked. "When did you become so wise? Where did my brash, reckless _pahir_ go?"

Terion loops an arm around his neck and leans into him. "I was raised by a wise _torin_ who taught me to honour the truth above all else,' he says, resting his brow against the side of Victus's head. "Tell her soon. You deserve some happiness and rest."

Holding tight to his safe, unrequited, risk-free feelings, Victus shrugs. "I don't know that she feels the same, Terion." He sighs, low and noisy, his doubt escaping through his subvocals.

Terion's laughter throws him, his _pahir_ turning him into a tight embrace. "She arranged a _mallupean_ for Tar, and coerced the turian councillor into rushing me here for it. You know exactly how she feels."

Laid out like that, the equation sounds so deceptively, terrifyingly simple. He returns Terion's embrace, gripping the _torin's_ shoulders, then nods toward the sitting area. "Come, tell me everything you've been up to."

They talk long into the night, falling asleep sprawled across the couches.


	5. Chapter Five -- Orders of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard is completely insane, Victus decides as he watches her racing between Reaper legs, ducking around more than a half dozen Brutes. It's not her nimble acrobatics or the insane risks she takes that convince him of her madness, it's the laughter. She's laughing like she's having the time of her life, whooping and calling out, teasing Garrus, Lt. Vega, and Wrex, all of whom express their views of her sanity, laced with a great deal of vulgar language.

**Samitaregia** \- (Turian) A guiding light. A light to illuminate one's path. The _prael_ a used such lights set into lanterns to guide warriors into battle, and then through the dark curtain of death.

 **Mallupean** \- A turian song composed to honour the deceased. It is usually written and sung (keened) by their closest loved one as an act of devotion to both the individual and the relationship. It is made up of three parts in a vaguely sonata-esque form.

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

 **Pahir** \- Son

* * *

Their appointment the next morning is with a researcher named Bryson. He's tracking legends, searching for truth. For a moment, Victus just stands at the threshold of the outer office, staring at a wall of monsters and another of murderers who can't remember their crimes. The moment before he was looking over research on rachni communication … rachni. He lifts a hand to buttress against the door sill. Dizziness staggers him a little, or perhaps it's just the feeling of stepping out of reality into madness.

"Rachni?" When Shepard turns to look at him, he realizes he spoke the name out loud.

She smiles and nods. "Yeah. Rachni." She winces, her mouth twisting into a grimace. "It's a long story, but there are some still out there."

He wanders back into the inner office and looks up at the fossilized skeleton hanging from the ceiling, then turns to shudder at the small chunk of Sovereign, malevolent despite being trapped and impotent inside its containment field. He's pretty damned sure Bryson's lost his mind.

"Frankly, I find the whole idea of searching for intel on the Reapers from old legends a little hard to swallow," he says, his mandibles spreading in an apologetic grimace when Shepard turns to face him. As much as he hates to reject any avenue, the galaxy burns out there while Bryson wastes his time and Alliance funds … worse, wastes Shepard's time.

"Up until 2148, humanity knew for certain that aliens were a myth," Bryson said, bristling a little. "The Alliance needs every scrap of intelligence … every weapon we can discover for this war." He walked over to a wall of images with lines drawn between them. "If we can uncover their history, the truth behind the blank wall of terror, there may be weaknesses we can exploit."

Shepard lets out a long breath, and from her posture, Victus sees that she's skeptical as well. "I'm burning five candles at fifteen ends, Dr. Bryson, I'm not certain chasing legends is the best use of my time."

The researcher bristles, heading for the outer office with a dogged, determined stride. "Imagine if this task force existed three years ago when you discovered the Prothean beacon, Commander." Bryson stalks to a case of trophies or artefacts then to lean against his galaxy map console. "This whole war might never have happened."

Victus doesn't follow when Shepard does, drawn instead to a board that looks like an attempt to chart sightings, to plot a course. He squints at the board, then glances next to him. A microscanner has been set up to scan a chunk of asteroid. He flicks it on and peers through the viewer. Eezo.

Jerking back, he frowns and returns to the course plotting. So ... eezo means ships or something that needs eezo. If it's an organism, biotic maybe? And … the course … the longer he looks at the vectors, the more the whole thing appears to miss some uniting factor.

A gunshot grabs him by the mandibles and yanks him into the front room, his heart a dead lump of rock in his chest. Dear spirits! Not Shepard! Don't let it be Shepard.

His heart slows when he sees the commander crouching next to an unconscious body, talking to C-Sec on her radio. "Shepard? What happened?" Hurrying to her side, he helps her up and checks for wounds.

"I'm fine, Primarch. He didn't hit me." She shakes her head and turns away, a frown furrowing her brow and knitting the skin between her eyes. "Something really strange is going on here. Bryson just told me that they were getting close." Pivoting on her toes, she looks over at a black, opalescent globe sealed behind glass. "He said one of his researchers sent that back, that he'd reported in progress … then his assistant, Hadley came in, shouted 'no', and then shot him."

The assistant shifts on the floor, pushing up a little. "You shouldn't be here," he says, his voice completely devoid of emotion or inflection. "The darkness cannot be breached."

Before they can question Hadley, C-Sec shows up, and Victus returns to trying to make some sense of the vast amount of material in the office. Most of it is useless; none of it fits the pattern he feels moving inside his mind. He stops to stare in at the black orb for a moment, before moving onto the communications station.

"Shepard?" he calls as she turns Bryson's body and Hadley's unconscious form over to C-Sec. "There are some messages here to Admiral Hackett."

"Commander?" the _Normandy's_ AI, EDI, strides in through the door. "I monitored a C-Sec alert to this location. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, EDI, thanks," Shepard replies. "I'm glad you're here. There's a ton of stuff to go through. Bryson said that they were tracking Leviathan … a Reaper killer, but he was killed before I found out anything substantial." She waves a hand toward the many desks, all covered with papers, datapads and information. "Can you see if you can find out anything?"

"Of course, Commander." The bot nods at Victus. "Good morning, Primarch Victus. It's a pleasure to see you again, sir."

"And you," he replies from force of habit, although not all certain he means it. He skims past Shepard's half grin, directing both their attention back to the communications. After she plays them, she turns to look into Victus's eyes, and he swears that he can see her mind working behind the field of green.

"So, Hackett declared full steam ahead on tracing this Reaper killer," she muses, "and obviously he intended the _Normandy_ to be Bryson's back up."

"And the Reapers were tracking Bryson's teams," Victus says, scowling at the black orb. "If they're hunting it, Hackett and Bryson are right, whatever it is, the Reapers are running scared." He turns on his talons and strides over to the galaxy map. "I was looking at the course Bryson was trying to work out in the other room, but something was missing, I think the Reapers' movements might fill in the last piece of that map."

"EDI," Shepard calls, joining him, her stare intense as she watches him input the course information into the task force's galaxy map, "can you access the Alliance's Reaper movement data and show it up here?"

"Of course, Commander. One moment." The data pops up on the galaxy map so quickly, that Victus cocks a brow plate, able to see why Shepard relies on the AI so heavily.

He and Shepard stare at the map for a few seconds, then turn to look at one another, slow smiles spreading across both their faces. "We make a hell of a team, Primarch," Shepard says, and reaches up, giving his arm a friendly squeeze. "All the markers point to the Aysur system in the Caleston Rift. We'd better get moving."

"I've entered the course, Shepard," EDI announced, "and arranged alpha priority clearance as soon as we arrive back at the Normandy."

Shepard's hand on his cowl ushers Victus out the door, and he agrees: they make an excellent team.

* * *

Shepard returns from the tungsten mine on the asteroid, Mahavid, pale and trembling. Victus waits for her to stop long enough to speak, but the moment she finishes her debriefs and reports, she vanishes.

"That place was a new sort of nightmare," Vakarian explains when Victus meets with him to go over the strategy for the next day's fleet deployment "An entire mining outpost controlled by whatever it is that we're chasing. When we finally broke the control, our contact murdered, we discovered that the people there had lost a decade." He shudders. "Shepard just … well, as tough as she is—and they don't come tougher—some things leave her shaken to the core. Slavery is the worst and indoctrination a close second." Vakarian turns back to the fleet data. "That nightmare pit combined the two. Just a bad, hard day."

Victus nods and changes the subject to the work at hand. When they finish, instead of leaving his meeting with Shepard for two in the morning, he heads down to the galley to heat up her favourite MRE—meatloaf and baked potato—and then grabs a couple packets of freeze dried ice cream.

When he knocks on her cabin door, he hears a loud bang, a louder "fuck", then a grumbled litany of cursing.

"Go away," she calls, her bellow slurred. "I'm tired, and I'm drunk, and I don't want to see anyone. Whatever you want can wait for tomorrow." Still, he hears slightly uneven footsteps approach the door.

Spirits, it's only been an hour since she left the war room, she must have upended the bottle.

"Day old, cold MRE's are revolting," he calls back. "And, if you've been drinking, eating some food might be a really good idea."

Her door opens, to reveal her standing there in her fuzzy bathrobe, wet hair still dripping down her face. "Primarch." A long, slumping sigh follows his title, and she stumbles off to one side, catching herself against the door frame. She stares at the food in his talons for a moment before frowning with such intensity that he wonders if she actually doesn't realize what he's holding. She hiccoughs and turns away. "Might as well come in since you went through all the trouble."

"Thank you, that's very gracious." He chuckles as she blows a raspberry at him, then follows her down to the couches. Transferring the trays to one hand, he prepares to grab her if her coordination doesn't prove up to navigating the stairs, but she makes it down, although not gracefully.

She flops on the couch, robe flipping up to reveal a bare leg covered in scars, and stares up at him through red, swollen eyes. "So, Garrus ratted me out, did he?" Upending the bottle, she takes a long guzzle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she finishes. "Damned turian."

Victus sets down their trays and reaches over, prompting a whine of protest as he plucks the bottle from her hand. "That's enough of that." He pushes her tray over toward her. "Get some food in your stomach before you start vomiting." Setting the alcohol down next to his chair, he settles in. "And Garrus didn't need to say anything, I could see that whatever happened on the asteroid had upset you the moment you entered the war room."

She makes no move to eat, so he reaches over and peels off the lid, then rips open a packet of the ice cream and holds it out. Shepard's stare slips from his eyes to the package and then back. "I miss ice cream," she says, her voice so soft he almost misses the words "The real stuff." A low, throaty rumble of a purr rolls in her throat. "Or chocolate/strawberry swirl soft serve. My dad used to take me to the ice cream parlour every Saturday afternoon after choir practice. It was my mom's sanity time."

She chuckles and takes the package from his hand, still staring at it as if it contains either some magical item or a booby trap. "I always ordered chocolate/strawberry swirl."

"Jane," he says, layering an intensity into his subvocals that draws her out of her contemplation, "eat something. You've got a head full of horrifying day and a belly full of alcohol. It's a bad combination." He gently juts his chin at her, mandibles spread and dropped. "Come on, sit up and eat before it gets cold." A soft breath of relief greets her grumble of acquiescence.

They eat in silence, then Jane climbs back up onto the couch, curled up in a corner, a pillow hugged against her belly as she picks at a packet of the freeze-dried ice cream. "I know you understand," she whispers after a long, expectant sort of silence. "Not that just about everyone doesn't these days." For a moment, she looks as though she might throw up, but then, she swallows hard, the very image of toughing it out through unimaginable pain. For three or four breaths, it takes every ounce of his strength to stay in his seat. She sighs again. "Doesn't really matter who or what we lose loved ones to, does it?" Another swallow. "Gone is gone."

Fighting down the urge to sit next to her and gather her into his arms, he nods. It feels like the last notes of the _mallupean_. "You were young when the batarians attacked Mindoir?" Looking into her eyes, he can't tell if the question will encourage her or shut her down. A selfish hunger to know her every pain and every joy has him holding his breath, praying she doesn't just close up.

When she nods, he lets his breath whisper out. Spirits, he aches for her to share even the smallest piece of herself with him. He feels as though he's been stripped bare by her compassion over Tar's death, while she remains all armour and clenched teeth.

"They came in the middle of the night. I'd just turned sixteen, but Jesus … so damned young. Nothing about our lives had prepared me for anything at all." A soft, strangled sound leaves her throat, and she sets the ice cream down on the table, gagging on it a little. She holds her hand out for the bottle, but instead, he grabs one of the clean glasses from the center of the table and runs up to the bathroom.

As he lets the water run cold, he swears he hears her making soft, keening sounds, and when he returns, her cheeks are wet with tears that she hastily brushes away. He sits next to her and passes her the water, settling for resting his hand on her shoulder when he wants nothing more to pull her in and press her tight against him.

"Sorry," she says after gulping down a couple of noisy swallows. "I'm being a complete fucking idiot." She smacks a hand down over his, her patting slaps rough but refreshingly unfettered. "That place, though. All those people, their minds enslaved—trapped in the cold and dark—"

Shifting around, she leans into him a little, her shoulder heavy and soft and perfect against the side of his chest. "I used to have a dream that I was working in the fields with my father and a great wave came rolling across the land. I ran to a high point and watched the wave wash up several kilometres away."

Frowning a little, she reaches up, fingertips skating along the length of his mandible, cool and damp from her glass. He holds himself rigid, muscles locking with the effort it takes to keep himself from leaning into that touch. Drunk and upset deserves comfort and respect, not indulging his selfishness.

She sniffs and swipes at her face again. "I knew we weren't safe. I knew a bigger wave was coming, and it did … and another and another. As the wave came that would finally hit the house, I started yelling for everyone to get inside. We'd be okay if we could just get inside."

A couple of gentle pats tap the hand still gripping her shoulder, then she rests her cheek against it. "I thought the dream was about Mindoir, but now …."

She pulls away, sudden and jerky, to look up into his eyes. "The waves are coming in, Adrien. They're coming in, and I'm yelling at everyone to get into the house, but I don't think anything can protect them." Her eyes fill with tears, the whites blooming a pale rose. Sweet spirits, she's so beautiful his heart feels like it's trying to crawl out between his ribs. "I can't protect them." Her fingers return to her shoulder to wrap around his talons, pulling them down between them. "Would it be entirely inappropriate to give you an inebriated hug?"

He smiles and nods. "Probably, but you're drunk, so inappropriate is expected."

She chuckles softly, hiccoughing a little on her tears, and burrows in next to him, not hugging just taking shelter against his side. He strokes her hair, his eyes closing as he savours the damp silkiness, but he holds himself at a distance, afraid that anything more intimate will just lead to embarrassment for Shepard come morning.

"Want a heavy dose of bastard irony?" she asks, her words slurring. "We were pacifists … mennonites. My daddy was a preacher." Her eyes settle closed. "I wanted to teach grade school in our little enclave."

That idea strikes him deep and hard. The batarians had changed not just her fate that night as they tore down her world, they'd changed his and the entire galaxy's. That can't be coincidence.

When she begins to snore, he carries her to her bed and tucks her beneath her blankets, robe and all. A tender ache squeezes his heart in its fist as he crouches next to her sleeping form, his talons stroking through the silken strands of her hair. "I've never known anyone like you, and even though I loved Lanira with all my soul … I've never felt anything like this either. Thank you for finding me on Menae."

Sighing, he stands, his entire body heating at the idea of just lying next to her, on top of the blankets, and falling asleep with her hair brushing his face. It takes far more strength than he's willing to admit to force himself to leave her. "Goodnight, _samitaregia_ ," he whispers as he lowers the lights. "Things will look brighter in the morning."

* * *

Shepard is completely insane, Victus decides as he watches her racing between Reaper legs, ducking around more than a half dozen Brutes. It's not her nimble acrobatics or the insane risks she takes that convince him of her madness, it's the laughter. She's laughing like she's having the time of her life, whooping and calling out, teasing Garrus, Lt. Vega, and Wrex, all of whom express their views of her sanity, laced with a great deal of vulgar language.

"Aw, come on," she says, a hollered whoop. "Tell me you've ever felt more alive."

As crazy as he believes her to be, Victus wishes he raced over that broken ground at her side, assault rifle in his hands, the hot, dry Tuchanka air rushing in and out of his lungs. She's right … nothing else makes him feel quite as alive. Well, perhaps one other thing, but his time to savour that is drawing to a close. Shepard, Mordin, and the shaman all race toward the end of his time aboard the _Normandy_ ... his time with her.

As much as he yearns to bring the relief of krogan troops to the beleaguered turian worlds, and as much gratitude as he feels for how hard and quickly they've all worked to save his people …. a part of him wishes it didn't have to end. Despite everything … all the pain and loss, his weeks on the _Normandy_ have been a halcyon time that allowed him to reclaim a piece of himself he believed dead. Looking around the war room, he allows himself a moment to begin missing it.

The screen in front of him yanks his attention back where it belongs as it disappears into a wall of metal and roiling dust clouds.

"Holy crap, that was fucking close," Shepard crows, still laughing as the Reaper nearly crushes her, an end avoided by spinning aside at the last second. His heart climbs up into his throat as the leg lifts to reveal a pair of Brutes closing on her. Shepard races straight at them, rolling under their grasping arms and sprinting away.

"You might consider putting a bullet or fifteen into those bastards," Vakarian says, his subvocals frustrated, but also rolling with heavy measures of love and respect. Again, it strikes Victus that his advisor has never taken the next step with Shepard, his passion for and loyalty to the woman unmatched in Victus's experience.

"You'd be sad if I didn't leave them for you," Shepard replies, laughing, wild and manic … and … free. And then she reaches the maw hammer control, hitting it even as she races around it, not pausing as she heads back the way she came. A wall of Brutes await her, but she doesn't slow. She merely leads them to one side of the path before launching her drone into their midst and dashing off. Spirits, she's fast.

"I left you two a present up there on the right side," she calls, racing past them. "No need to thank me." The path to the left hammer control proves to be a great deal less crowded despite the Reaper still trying to stomp Shepard into muck.

"Get back to the trucks!" The hammer falls as Shepard shouts to Vakarian and Vega.

"What about you?" Vakarian doesn't sound as though he's going to obey and leave her. Adrien realizes he's holding his breath as his chest begins to burn. And then a bestial scream roars through the comms, so loud that the projector console vibrates under his hands.

"I'll make sure the cure gets deployed and catch up with you." Shepard's suit cam shows the most insanely huge thresher maw Victus has ever seen. It rears up out of the ground, launching itself at the Reaper. For a few seconds, Shepard watches the battle, appearing frozen within her own awe, but then the ruins begin to disintegrate around her, and she breaks, racing for the Shroud.

Although he only catches glimpses of the battle between the Reaper and Kalros while Shepard ducks, dives, and rolls out of harm's way, it sears itself into his memory and his imagination as surely as the woman who has brought them to that point … the woman poised to cure the krogan and help him save his planet. Dear spirits, she truly is a _praela_.

Shepard reaches Mordin to the good news that while sorely taxed by the process, Eve lives. Revealing the dalatrass's machinations, Shepard says she'll stay, ride up the Shroud to deploy the cure.

"My work to finish," Mordin insists. "Am old, Shepard. Gave my life to my work, willing to die to see if made right."

Victus closes his feed, letting the computer record their goodbyes without his prying eyes. Shepard will need time to gather her grief, box it up, and tie it down. Mordin's loss will cut deep, for even though she says little, her love for the speed-talking salarian shines through every word, every glance, and every gesture, something far more telling than words.

"The cure is deployed," Shepard calls over the radio. "Buckle your seatbelt, Primarch, the krogan are locked and loaded, and mounting up. One cavalry as ordered." She chuckles. "I might even be able to find a bow somewhere if you'd like them giftwrapped."

Victus chuckles. "I'd like one stuck right to the top of Wrex's head, if you could manage that."

"No problem, I'm stealthy, practically ninja-like." Her laugh rings low and tight as compared to a half hour ago. "Seriously, though … EDI already has the transport fleet landing, and we're moving out. I should be back aboard the _Normandy_ within the next three or four hours, but don't be surprised if Wrex starts calling you long before that." In the background, he hears voices calling out to her and then the channel mutes. A few seconds later, she returns. "Okay, I'm needed apparently, but congratulations, Primarch Victus. Wish you could have been down here to see it. A hell of a victory."

"Are you kidding?" he teases. "I hate thresher maws. You're the only one who actually enjoys that madness." Victus rumbles, clearing his throat to shed the teasing. "You've performed miracles, Shepard. The congratulations are yours. The scales of debt have tipped beyond the galaxy's ability to even them. Thank you."

Silence greets his words, but he knows why, and smiles, a soft sigh escaping. He wishes she could believe and accept the compliments, but he doubts that she'd reach so deeply into everyone's hearts and own such a huge chunk of their souls if she did.

After several seconds, she simply says, "I'll see you in a few hours, Adrien. Shepard, out."

She's right about Wrex. The old bastard is on the comms within fifteen minutes, barking out orders and phrasing even his questions to sound like demands. Between Wrex and Eve, they keep Victus so busy that Shepard returns to the _Normandy_ before he escapes the war room to pack. The first of the transports heading to the fleet and Palaven are leaving Tuchanka within the hour, so rather than wait for her, he races down to throw his armour on and pack his few, scattered belongings.

She finds him fastening his kit. "Poor ol' life support is going to feel empty again," she says from the door. Crossing the room, she sits on the cot and pats the spot next to her. She clasps her hands between her knees, staring at them as if her life depends on it. "The _Normandy_ will feel a little emptier without you," she says, her voice so soft that Victus needs to lean closer to hear her. "You've been a hell of a support, and I want to thank you for that."

She swallows, throwing up a hand when he tries to answer her, to thank her for everything she's done to keep him sane and functional. He nods and relaxes down into the cot, willing to wait her out. She squeezes her hands, wringing them a little before her right reaches over to take his left.

"Thank you for last night," she says. "I'm sorry if I made things awkward, and thank you for being so kind." He hears something click in her throat as she swallows again. "I don't let people see me like that very often." She chuckles, mostly just air blowing out her nose. "Okay, ever. Garrus has once or twice, but he's known me forever." Shuffling a little, she makes a soft chuffing sound. "He knows all my warts and scars, and I guess I know all of his."

Another pause, and then she squeezes his hand. "It's to be expected from best friends, so thank you for being such a good friend." She nods. "Yeah, I guess that's what I'm trying to say when it comes down to it." Finally, she looks up, meeting his gaze. "Thank you, and don't be a stranger, okay?"

He smiles, mandibles fluttering a little. "Definitely. And if I've been a good friend to you … well, you've been a hell of a friend yourself." Another small flutter and heat flushes beneath his face plates and down his neck as he leans in a little. "Do you mind if I … ."

Stealing away his awkwardness, she touches her brow to his, a quick tap and then she releases him and stands. "Come on, I came down because Fleet General Attrissan was starting to beat his keel about leaving on time." She holds a hand out toward the door, but hesitates. "If we both survive this, what do you say to meeting up for dinner? We could celebrate … drink too much, order dessert … maybe even go somewhere with candles and shit."

"Not sure about eating where they have shit on the tables," he teases, laughing when she elbows him, and suddenly he can breathe again. "But, it's a date."

Standing, Victus follows her up to the war room where they meet Vakarian and begin the procedures to close down all his access and wipe all his passwords. Then it's time to leave. "You more than kept your end of the bargain, Commander." He extends his hand, the formalities needing to be said and recorded for both of their governments. "Now I'll keep mine. The turian hierarchy will stand humanity against the Reapers."

Shepard grips his wrist between both hands. "I'm just glad we're able to help each other out, Primarch. It's the only way any of us are going to beat the Reapers." She releases him and holds a hand out to usher him to the door.

"That much is certain." He follows, hurrying to keep in step, keenly aware of the news camera feed relaying the moment to the entire galaxy. Focusing on the business at hand eases the separation. It's not goodbye. It's not taking the first steps away from Lanira's pyre, his baby in one arm, his young _pahir_ under the other. It's … until later, and he won't let it be that much later.

"To that end," he says, taking a deep breath, "several dry dock ships are ready to help build the Crucible. Garrus will handle their coordination."

Vakarian nods, managing to avoid looking surprised. "Yes, sir. I'll take care of it."

Victus looks at the schematic glowing at the center of the war table, the sum total of all their hopes for a future. "And when the time comes to deploy it, the full measure of our fleet will be there for Earth." He backs up a step. "May the spirits watch over us all."

Shepard and Vakarian accompany him to the airlock, where the turian cruiser, _TSF Unwavering_ , is linked up, awaiting his arrival. He meets and holds Shepard's eyes for another moment before the hatch closes. He's on his way back to his people.

"All dreams end," he whispers and turns to enter the _Unwavering_.


	6. Chapter Six -- Through the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard's smile sets Victus's heart racing. "Wow, you sure must have missed me. You've only been off the Normandy for thirty hours."
> 
> He shrugs, keeping his own grin buttoned down. "Maybe I just missed the Normandy. Only someone with a truly inflated ego would assume I called because I missed her."
> 
> One of her eyebrows cocks. "Really? That's why the call came through to my omnitool rather than the comm room?" Her smile tugs toward one side, damn he loves when she does that … the sly little smile that claims to know all his secrets.

**Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

**Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

**Buratrum** _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

* * *

Victus stares out into the field of stars and wonders if Shepard finds the war room empty without his presence. For his part, she pulls at him like an elastic tether, trying to reel him back. Surely, he can run the war from the _Normandy_ : its facilities want for nothing.

He sighs and turns away from the port, keenly aware of Wrex leering at him from a few metres away.

"She got to you, didn't she?" the krogan asks, his tone betraying nothing.

Victus stares into the crimson eyes, searching for any mockery or incrimination, but comes up empty. He pivots toward the elevator. "We must all prioritize duty," he says, his voice hushed, subvocals restrained, "and shoulder our burdens to win this war." Even if Wrex guesses how deep his feelings run for Shepard, his people certainly don't need to speculate.

"Yeah, we do," Wrex agrees, "but you lightened hers." The krogan turns and strides down the length of the cruiser's CIC, stopping next to the krogan liaison.

Victus allows his heart a handful of hurried beats before he polices his reaction. Still, the image of Shepard standing in the _Normandy's_ war room, casting glances toward where he stood, warms him to the tips of his talons. Perhaps he'll find something in the reports from the fleets and grounds forces that needs to be passed on to her that evening.

He chuckles, cutting it off quickly as he attracts the attention of the officers standing nearby. Nodding to them, he forces the smile from his face and pulls his mandibles in tight against his mouth. When the elevator doors close behind him, he relaxes, the chuckle returning. He hasn't pined for a female since his first year in training.

The worst part is, he likes it, for all of the distraction and longing. He likes the possibility of something other than duty waiting out there in his future.

* * *

Shepard's smile sets Victus's heart racing. "Wow, you sure must have missed me. You've only been off the _Normandy_ for thirty hours."

He shrugs, keeping his own grin buttoned down. "Maybe I just missed the _Normandy_. Only someone with a truly inflated ego would assume I called because I missed her."

One of her eyebrows cocks. "Really? That's why the call came through to my omnitool rather than the comm room?" Her smile tugs toward one side, damn he loves when she does that … the sly little smile that claims to know all his secrets. Holding the omnitool up, she shows him that she's lying in her rack, a pile of datapads strewn around her. "I was getting ready for bed."

His chuckle comes off just wicked enough to broaden her grin as she centers herself in the screen again, then he shows her his almost identical state, sitting in bed, surrounded by all the work that won't let him doze off. "I figured you would be," he says. "Hoped in fact, so that we'd actually get a chance to talk instead of shouting things at the comms while we run from place to place."

Her smile wipes the datapads and rest of the sundries he intended to finish before sleeping from his mind. Her eyebrows lift again, her eyes looking around as if waiting for something to happen. "So, what was so important that you needed to call when I was a captive audience?"

"I'm the primarch, Shepard." He makes a face, all screwed up brow plates and off-kilter mandibles. "And, worse … they expect me to act like it."

She gasps, both hands held to her mouth. As he stares at her fingers, he remembers their cool, gentle touch as they skated along his mandible or pressed against his cheek. He's so much closer to her in his mind that he almost misses what she says. "How dare they? Don't they know you were shanghaied into this job? Just because you happen to be damned good at it, it doesn't follow that they should expect you to … " A graceful, if feigned, shudder rolls down her spine. "... lead."

He flicks his mandibles, making her laugh. "I shouldn't have expected any sort of empathy." Stretching out, he settles a little deeper into the mattress, sleep finally trying to catch him. "I'm a foolish _torin_ … forgot who I'm talking to."

Smile losing its sharp edges, she lets out a long, slow breath. "You're damned good at it, Adrien. They all see it. You engender trust and a feeling that everything is under control as long as you're there to scold it into line." A soft shrug tugs one shoulder. "So, yeah, they're going to come to you, and it's a good thing, because you really are an excellent primarch."

He can't find anything to say, so allows the silence to drift, sleepy and full, between them. When she yawns, he catches it. Hand flying up, he tries to cover it, but her delighted chuckle tells him he's too late.

"Those teeth. I love it," she says and giggles. "Yawning turians … they never get old."

Clamping his jaw on laughter, he rumbles his subvocals instead, low and scolding. "It's hardly fitting to mock Palaven's primarch."

"I'm sorry," she replies, sounding anything but sorry. "It's adorable. I can't help it." The smile melts into something softer, something that makes his heart race behind his keel. "Besides, I'm not mocking Palaven's primarch, I'm teasing my friend, Adrien." She sits up, leaning into the imager a little. "You should get some sleep." Waggling her head, she sighs. "I should get some sleep. We're arriving back at the Citadel in ten hours, and I have a ton of meetings."

As she leans forward, he sees a bandage on the back side of her shoulder. Concern leaps up to meet it. "What happened there?"

She looks back and reaches up to prod at the bandage with enough care to tell him that it's no small scratch. "Oh, Cerberus sniper on Benning." Trying to pass it off, she shrugs, but he knows her well enough to see through it. "We had to evacuate a ton of civilians out of the slums. Cerberus just went in and started gunning their way through." She runs her hand through her hair, tussling the short, bright red curls.

"Gunning down humans?" he asks, his brow plates pulling low over his nose. That doesn't make sense. All the pro-human group's moves have been against aliens thus far.

"Yeah, it's insane, and Cerberus is denying having anything to do with it. Hackett says he believes them, so who the hell knows what's going on. They don't pay me to think, just to shoot straight." She sighs, the sound exhausted enough that he feels guilty for having called. "Anyway, we saved a lot of people, but Garrus and I both tangled with snipers." Lifting a hand into view, she stalls his inquiry. "He's fine, just cranky that a sniper got him." She grins and covers another yawn.

As much as he doesn't want to, he knows he's got to let her sleep. "Go to sleep, and if you get a chance, eat at Finnigan's for me."

Her smile reaches down inside his chest, filling him up, as it has since the day she rescued his people from the pits of _buratrum_. "Okay." The breath that leaves her sounds as though it originates in her feet. "Have a good day of being all primarch-ey … or is that primarch-ish?"

"Your language skills are terrifying. The correct term is primarchified." He chuckles at the face she makes, sticking out her tongue.

"So," she says, sitting up and gathering data pads, "tomorrow's call is on my tab?"

Nodding, he sits up to do the same, ready to sleep. "Deal. See you tomorrow, Jane."

"Tomorrow." She touches her brow with the backs of her fingers. "Sleep well, Adrien."

He returns the gesture, trying to hide his sudden giddiness. She initiated it. Damn, that's hopeful.

* * *

The first news of the Cerberus attack on the Citadel comes in halfway through his day. He's arguing with Fleet General Commodus over deploying an extra wing to defend the safe haven on Oma Ker when a vid screen across the busy comm room starts blaring an intermittent, static-riddled report on the attack.

He tells the general that he'll be there in three days to personally help defend the colony world and the millions of refugees, then hangs up, leaving Commodus sputtering. Numb feet carry him across the room as the vid screen flashes images of civilians being gunned down all over the Citadel.

Finally, a turian reporter appears, the grainy, fragmented images behind her showing fighting in a docking bay. Cerberus must be jamming communications. Still, he recognizes the flaming red hair—why isn't she wearing a helmet—at the far end of the dock even before the _tarin_ in the foreground speaks.

"Commander Shepard, the alliance soldier and council Spectre leading the human charge in the war against the Reapers, has arrived in the C-Sec docking bay. As you can see from the feeds, Shepard's long-time friend and XO, Garrus Vakarian, and a small interspecies team from the _SSV_ _Normandy_ are making excellent progress clearing Cerberus forces from the docking bay."

Eyes focused on Shepard, Victus tunes out the reporter, not needing or wanting her take on the situation. Shepard moves her team up the docking bay in pairs, and in under five minutes, she's helping a wounded C-Sec officer up off the floor. When the team disappears into C-Sec proper, he returns to work. Shepard will handle it. Of that, he harbours not a single doubt. She's dealt with so much worse that he scarcely needs to listen as updates come in.

The news network finds sporadic feeds from inside C-Sec, and he pauses to watch, chuckling to himself as Shepard snipes an operator through the canopy of his Atlas mech then climbs inside to take out the rest of the forces along the street. Even with the tragedy all around her, he knows she's revelling in stomping around in the massive weapon.

"She's something, isn't she, Primarch?" Ralayis, his young aide from Menae says, practically bouncing in place at his side. He stares at her for a couple of moments, amazed that none of the energy that pulled her through the fight on Palaven and across Menae has abated. She's a minor miracle, herself.

"She is," he agrees at last, then passes her datapads of orders to be distributed. "Tomorrow at 15:00:00, I'll be taking the _Resolve, Stolid_ , and _Gallant_ to support the fleet guarding Oma Ker." Turning back to his work, he allows a tiny flick of his mandibles to betray his formality. "If you want to come along as my aide, be packed and waiting in the shuttle."

"Yes sir." A small, eager nova, she salutes and races off.

Victus has finished his work and eaten the evening meal before his comms beep. Looking up from packing, he lifts a hand to his radio implant. "Yes?"

"Call for you from Commander Shepard, Primarch."

"Thank you," he replies, a frown tugging at his brow plates and mandibles. Why would Shepard route her call through the _Indomitable's_ comms rather than calling him directly? "Put it through."

"Adrien?" Spirits, her voice sounds so far beyond exhausted.

"Jane." Dropping his armload of clothing on top of his kit, he sits on the edge of his rack. "How are you?" He swallows, suddenly afraid of the answer. "We saw bits and pieces of the attack."

A long, soft sigh answers him. "It's been a hell of a day, but the Citadel is back under C-Sec control and most of the council is still alive. I suppose that makes it a victory."

"Most?" He winces even as the word escapes. She sounds as though the day has gutted her; she doesn't need an interrogation.

"Yeah, Udina was working with Cerberus. He tried to turn the rest of the council over to assassins, so I shot him. Nearly had to shoot Alenko as well, but … ." The rest of the sentence disappears into a sigh. "Thane Krios died saving Valern." A sharp, scornful sound crackled through a moment of static. "Not sure it was a fair trade."

Victus remembers her speaking of the drell who'd occupied life support during her campaign against the Collectors. The comms dissolve into static for a few seconds. "Jane?"

"Yeah, still here," she replies when it fades. "Sorry about the call quality, but Cerberus kicked the shit out of the Citadel's comm systems." A long yawn follows her words. "Sorry about that too. I'm between meetings, debriefings, and everyone on the entire damned station needing me to do something." For a moment, her voice comes through so clear and soft that he can close his eyes and imagine that she's next to him, her face tucked in against his neck. "But, I knew you'd have heard about the coup and didn't want you to worry."

"You sound like you need some sleep," he says, packing his subvocals with everything he can't say … that he has no right to say.

"And a couple of good, stiff drinks, but it's going to be a while before I can indulge in either." Another yawn, and when she continues, her voice comes through softer, more pained. A familiar voice rumbles in the background, too low to make out any words, but then Shepard chuckles, the sorrow and exhaustion beneath the sound painful to hear. "Garrus sends his love," she says in the moment after, "and apparently, he's traced some hacking signal, so I've got to go shoot some more people."

He doesn't want to end the call. He wants to climb into bed and talk until they both fall asleep, the line open and silent between them. He wishes he was there … that he could simply call Commodus and tell the old bastard that he's headed to the Citadel.

Instead, he says, "Tell Vakarian that I know how much he misses me, and I send all my love and kisses right back."

The sharp, surprised bark of Shepard's laugh tugs free a relieved grin. Thank the spirits he could lighten her load for even just that second.

"He's not the only one who misses you, but I'll pass on your kisses," she says then clears her throat. "I'll be out of touch for a few days. We're off to Lessus and Gellix, both deep enough in Reaper Territory that we'll be comms dark except for scheduled QEC, but as soon as we get back, I'll call. We can catch up then."

"I'm headed to Oma Ker, the Reapers have been scouting in the area." He let out a long breath, the weight of what going to Oma Ker meant hanging heavy and dark. "The populace is safe from air attack—thank Vakarian for that, by the way—but we need to be prepared for ground assault."

"Stay safe, Adrien." A soft sound, one he would have thought a whimper from anyone else, whispers under the static. From Shepard, he calls it a sigh. "I've lost so many … ." He hears her swallow, the sound tightening a fist around his throat. "I can't do this … well … um … you keep me sane."

He pauses to breathe, loosening the grip on his vocal chords so his words don't come out flat and strained. "Stay safe, and I'll talk to you in a couple of days."

She closes the channel, and he sits in the silence, staring at the wall, lost for a moment in the soft pleading echo of her tone.

Not quite three minutes tick past before his comms beep, spurring him back into action.

* * *

"If I was a paranoid _torin_ , I'd be pretty sure the Reapers were waiting for me to show up," Victus says, staring at the screen projecting the enemy closing in on the planet. Luckily, it appears that the Reapers don't know that Oma Ker is home to millions of Palaven's refugees. They've sent a small force, mostly destroyers that appear set on courses to take out the spaceport and transportation/communication hubs.

"Our fleet could take those few destroyers," Commodus says, the strain of guarding civilians rolling through more than his subvocals. Victus understood the frustration, but they need to keep the varren leashed.

"It's more important to keep our civilians hidden," he says, setting his subvocals to disarm the charge building in the other _torin_. "Let the destroyers hit the major targets and then keep the ground forces busy." He changes the view to a fauna scan. "This planet possesses a wealth of natural weapons, so let's use them. I want strategies for turning the megafauna against the Reaper ground units ready to present by 13:00:00."

Stifling a yawn behind his hand, he turns to face the citizen council. One last order of business remains before he can get some sleep after more than two days. "The sensor nets and barricades are set at the cave entrances?" They'd set sensors all over the island to let them keep track of Reaper ground troops, then built massive natural barricades at the entrances to the cave complexes that housed millions of turians. Thank the spirits for Garrus Vakarian, expert Reaper advisor, and his preparations.

"Our defenses are as ready as they can be." The _tarin_ acting as their spokesperson says stepping forward. "With the extra bodies you brought us … ." She shrugs, a graceful wave that travels down her spine. "Well, against this enemy, all we can do is our best." Before he can speak, she lifts a hand, gesturing toward one of the doors out of the command center. "But you've travelled long and haven't rested since you arrived. Please, allow me to show you to your quarters, Primarch. One of the youngsters can bring the evening meal to you."

Victus nods. "Thank you." His quarters are just down the corridor from command—a sensible precaution—and consist of an actual bed, a desk, a short couch, and a computer. "Practical luxury," he says, giving the _tarin_ a grateful nod. "Thank you. It'll suit very nicely."

When the door closes behind his escort, Victus sinks down onto the side of his bed. Activating his omnitool, he checks the chrono, and then his messages. Nothing from Shepard even though it's been four days. He debates calling her. Who knows how long they'll have the ability to call out before the Reapers destroy the comms. He wonders if Vakarian thought to connect the QEC to the _Normandy's._

"Primarch?" Victus winces at the sharp growl of Commodus's voice. What now?

"Go ahead, General." He replies, tossing his kit up on the mattress next to him, the interruption spurring him into motion.

"You have an incoming call, sir." The reply sends a delighted shiver of anticipation rocketing down his spine.

"Put it through, General. Thank you." When his omnitool beeps, he activates the small vid screen, a wide smile greeting the image that appears. "I was just debating whether or not to try to call," he says, pure sunlight bursting through him at the knowledge that while she occupied his thoughts, he occupied hers.

Shepard's smile is open and lovely. "Great minds, and all that," she says then shrugs. "Well, at least one great mind at work." She lets out a long sigh, her smile widening. "You … look like complete crap." Her laugh ricochets through the dark corners of his room.

"I can't believe I actually missed this abuse." Try as he might, he can't keep the smile off his face. "So, how did your missions go?"

Shepard nods and leans back, drawing his attention to the fact that she's lying in her bed, propped up on pillows. "Successfully blew the hell out of an ardat yakshi monastery, killing the entire population, which the Reapers had turned into nightmares that we've dubbed banshees." His view shifts as she taps at her tool's interface.

His omnitool beeps to let him know he's received a file.

"I just sent you all the intel we gathered on them. I'm sure Alliance HQ has sent it to the hierarchy, but I figured, I might as well forward it to you express post." Her earlier smile fades into a weary scowl. "Read and be prepared, Adrien, they're the worst nightmare yet." She sighs, long and wavering. "Worse than the Ravagers, because you can't just dig into cover and whittle them down. They don't use guns but Charge to close fast and they'll keep you pinned with Warp."

Settling down a little further into her pillows, she gifts him a tiny smile that feels like both a warning and encouragement. "Don't be surprised if they start showing up on your fronts. I know for certain that this isn't the only monastery, and with the Reapers beginning to encroach on asari colony worlds, there are going to be more and more of them."

He sets the file aside to read once their call ends, focusing on her eyes. "Thanks for the heads up." He shakes his head, the underside of his plates prickling. "There isn't going to be an end to the new monsters, is there?" He knows the answer, looking more to ease the sense of isolated helplessness than anything else.

Shepard shakes her head. "Not until we end them, but we're a lot closer to that goal than we were a week ago."

Brow plates lifting, he cocks his head, asking, "Oh?"

"Yeah." She shifts again, as if she's in pain and trying to find a comfortable position. "We rescued a pile of Cerberus scientists off Gellix. They defected and are now all helping get the Crucible built. And we found Dr. Ann Bryson at another of their dig sites. We saw some Marauders using one of the black orbs to track Leviathan. When we get back to the Citadel, we're going to run the Reaper killer to ground."

"That schedule explains why you look so beat up," he says. "And speaking of … do you mind if I unpack and change while we talk? I arrived yesterday, but spent every moment since evacuating the colony to the shelters and arranging to keep the ground troops held off. My rack is calling."

"Of course." She nods, and opens her mouth, her expression saying that maybe she should just go and let him sleep, but the words don't come out. Thank the spirits.

Not that he would have agreed with it. Four days is the longest he's gone without speaking to her. The work helps, but still … he'll take every moment he gets. Going audio-only, he digs out his hygiene kit and heads into his small washroom.

"Don't forget behind your aural canals," Shepard teases as he washes his face and neck. "Oh, and you missed a spot under your fringe." She laughs. "Even though I can't see you, I feel a little like a creeper listening to your nightly _torin_ -rituals."

A sharp laugh answers that. "A creeper?"

"Yeah, a pervert peeping in on you."

For a moment, he almost says that he wishes that she was there, doing all her nightly woman-rituals at his side. Rather than feeling awkward, having her there, even in that limited capacity … it's an intimacy that he's sorely missed over the past couple of decades. He always cherished the time he and Lanira managed to get together at home. They spent far too much of their bonded cycles apart.

Instead, he says, "At least I'm not oiling my plates. Listening to that might just make you a pervert."

"Is that a euphemism?" she asks, chortling as though she can sense the heat burning beneath his plates.

"No, it's a fact of being a turian." He chuckles. "Showering—hot water and cleansers—dries out our hide. If we don't keep it oiled, it cracks."

"Huh, how about that. I learn something new every day." When he starts brushing his teeth, she cackles, a teasing laugh not unlike her yawning turian delight. "You missed a piece of wretched meat gruel pellet lodged in the second tooth from the back on the right."

"Is that my right or yours?" he asks around a mouthful of oral cleanser, muting while he spits.

"Mine, naturally." She yawns. "So, are you sticking around Oma Ker?"

Victus makes his way back out to the narrow, but comfortable-looking bed. "Yeah, might as well. Here or one of the other safe havens. I won't do the fleets any good out there, but here … maybe I can help morale." He stuffs his hygiene kit back into his duffel and tosses it onto the couch.

When he's settled into his bed, he turns the vid back on, just savouring the sleepy contours of her face and the long, graceful lines of her neck. Spirits, she's beautiful. "I don't know what we would be doing right now if it hadn't been for Vakarian and his task force setting up these safe havens." He shuffles the pillows around behind his head so that he doesn't have to hold his arm up to see her. "The war room here is nearly as good as the _Normandy's_."

Shepard gasps. "That's heresy you're speaking there, Primarch. I can't believe you said that where the old girl could hear you." She looks up at the ceiling. "Just ignore what the mean turian said, _Normandy_. Nothing holds a candle to you."

Victus just shakes his head. "Still tripping over cables everywhere?"

Mock horror turns to laughter. "You are so bad, but yes, I still manage to trip over one or two a day. Damn things."

"Maybe if you looked where you were going?" He grins and shakes his head. "No, sorry, forget I said anything. That's far too practical."

Silence settles between them, comfortable, sleepy, and warm, and Victus lets his eyes drift closed. "I'm not sure how long we'll have regular comms," he says, his words slurring as all his muscles melt down into the thick memcell of his mattress. "A few Reaper destroyers are headed for our orbit."

"Take out the spaceport and comms," Shepard says, sounding equally on the verge of sleep. "Yeah, if nothing else, they're consistent in their tactics."

"What's that human saying? If it's not broke, don't fix it?" He yawns, a smile anticipating her giggles. She doesn't disappoint.

"You should go to sleep," she says, following with a yawn of her own.

He shakes his head, his eyes closed so he doesn't know if she saw it, or if she too is drifting off.

There's a smile in her voice, and she sounds as if she's right there beside him as she says, "Goodnight, Adrien. I'll talk to you in a couple of days."

He nods, "Goodnight, Jane," and the channel closes. He's asleep the next breath, his dreams filled with her laughter.


	7. Chapter Seven -- Whispers between Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vakarian appears before him looking battle worn and exhausted. Victus's heart stops, freezing solid behind his keel. No. No. They haven't had a chance to do anything. They didn't even get started. He clears his throat, the sound coming out laced with far too much fear. Stomping on his reaction, he holds himself so rigid that the muscles in his back threaten to lock up.
> 
> "Vakarian." He clears it again, trying to relax the muscles in his throat. "Where's … how's Shepard?"

**Torin** \- Male turian over the age of majority (15)

* * *

The next day passes quickly. The Reaper destroyers take out the important installations and drop off troops, but at least the massive conversion ship remains in orbit. Thank the spirits, the Reapers don't consider the colony worth harvesting. Once the ground troops land, the destroyers return to space, the small enemy fleet moving on to their next target.

Victus watches the scans, letting out a long-held breath when the turian ships and refugee camps go unnoticed. A short celebration passes through the war room, but then he shoves aside his relief in favour of calm calculation. The fight has just begun with nearly a thousand Reaper units on the ground. For the moment, they're sweeping through the abandoned settlements, but it won't be long before they start to spread out, more determined and tireless than a pack of starving varren.

If his people attack the ground units conventionally, they might as well send the Reapers a comm message announcing that there's something worth defending on the planet. And so he's hip-deep in tracking packs of the planet's predators and figuring out how to move them into position to meet up with the Reaper units when his comms ping.

Despite the work and responsibility pressing in on him from all sides—or maybe because of it—he can't help but grin as he hurries into the QEC room to answer the incoming call. It's got to be Shepard. Trust her to find a way to call. "Victus."

"Primarch."

Vakarian appears before him looking battle worn and exhausted. Victus's heart stops, freezing solid behind his keel. No. No. They haven't had a chance to do anything. They didn't even get started. He clears his throat, the sound coming out laced with far too much fear. Stomping on his reaction, he holds himself so rigid that the muscles in his back threaten to lock up.

"Vakarian." He clears it again, trying to relax the muscles in his throat. "Where's … how's Shepard?"

"She's fine," his advisor says. He holds up both hands, palms forward, the words rushing out as if he's realized the storm about to break. "Injured, but recovering." Victus watches as the _torin_ takes three sharp, heavy steps across the comm room before pivoting and returning, pacing as he reports. It's distracting, but Victus just swallows his annoyance.

Shepard's XO glances his way. "We spent the day on the lovely ocean planet of Despoina, fighting Reapers amidst torrential downpours and across shipwrecks. I'm never going to be warm and dry again, but we found the Reaper killer." He paused and let out a sharp chuff. "We found a few of them, actually. Shepard dove three thousand metres in a deep sea mech to talk to them."

In response to Victus's subvocal growl of disapproval, Vakarian's chuckle rumbles, warm and affectionate. "She can't help those sorts of stunts, Primarch. It doesn't even occur to her to not take the risk. Anyway, after she finished chatting with them, she was running low on air and rocketed up to the surface. Her blood practically boiled from decompressing too quickly, so she's in a hyperbaric chamber for a couple of days to ease her back to normal pressure."

Again, the chuckle, and he finally ceased his constant movement. "She made me promise to let you know that she's okay before she'd even let us treat her." Despite Vakarian trying to keep things light, the other _torin's_ subvocals clearly broadcast how close Shepard had come to not returning from Despoina. "The _Normandy_ is stuck at the Citadel until she gets out, so she put us all on shore leave."

"And yours will be spent outside her chamber?" As he studies Vakarian's reactions, Victus's grin is fleeting, more a taut flick of mandibles than an actual smile. If Vakarian is staying at the hospital, Shepard's condition is far less 'fine' than the _torin_ is letting on. Victus's gut ties so tight that he considers slipping out to the head, although one can hardly carry on a conversation with nervous effluvia pouring from either or both ends.

His advisor lets out a bashful rumble, his shoulders rolling in a shrug. "She'll be bored in there within thirty seconds of waking up. I can keep her entertained." The lie Victus hears beneath the words tightens the knots until it takes a clenched jaw and fisted talons to restrain himself.

"You're worried about her," Victus says, his subvocals warning Vakarian not to dissemble.

Vakarian deflates a little. "I am. She was in so much pain ... I …. She stopped breathing for nearly a minute before Alenko and I got her up and running again." The admission sounds as though it tastes like biting into a rancid _puala_ fruit. However, all the fiber that drained away the moment before, returns, the first positive, reassuring sign Victus has seen.

Heartbeat returning to near normal, he asks. "And the prognosis?"

"Dr. Chakwas assures me that Shepard's going to be up and running headlong into danger within the next few days. She should be able to contact you tomorrow, once they let the sedatives wear off."

"What hospital did Dr. Chakwas admit her to?" Victus straightened and stiffened. "I want a report as soon as anything changes."

"Huerta Memorial, and yes, sir, I'll have Traynor call." A yawn broke through his rigid salute. "Apologies, Primarch. It's been a long day."

Taking his first deep breath since Vakarian appeared on the QEC, Victus returns the salute, then activates the fleet deployment schematic on the secondary QEC. "Then let's get through the day's business as quickly as possible."

When they close the call nearly an hour later, Victus leans against the console, trying to think of a way to route a call through to the hospital. Frustration worms beneath his plates and through his muscles, insisting that he find some way to break the walls of his cage … to find his way to her. It explodes in fists pounding on the console.

"Primarch Victus?" Ralayis's voice murmurs, her subvocals reluctant, almost timid, pulling him from the pointless exercise of beating the comm system into submission. "First scouting team reports contact, sir."

He pivots away from the QEC, forcing the stoic mask back in place. Despite burying himself in work, one wish stubbornly refuses to leave the fore of his mind.

" _If we both survive this, what do you say to meeting up for dinner? We could celebrate … drink too much, order dessert … maybe even go somewhere with candles and shit."_

" _Not sure about eating where they have shit on the tables," he teases, laughing when she elbows him, and suddenly he can breathe again. "But, it's a date."_

* * *

**Tirentira -** More an order of animals rather than a specific species. Massive feline-analogue predators. Named so for the large size of their teeth/fangs/claws. Many have poison spikes as defensive weapons.

**Micardelis** \- Dear or beloved friend. An endearment that expresses the greatest love and respect.

Bullets tear into the _tirentira's_ chest and forelegs, but it doesn't seem to feel them let alone pull out of its charge. Victus glances to either side, frustration building as he sees no way to get around it. Any direction he might run will just lead the massive, dagger-toothed predator straight into the troops who've already managed to get clear.

It was his bright idea to round up the pride of predators before luring the main body of Reapers into the canyon and unleashing hell. He should have just let the straggler go, but oh no … he had to go and channel Shepard's special brand of insanity and play 'dodge the claws of death'.

Despite less than twenty-five metres separating its knife-edged weapons and his hide, a grin spreads across his face. Shepard's right. Dodge the claws of death is fun. Spirits, it feels good to have his rifle in his hands—heavy and dancing along the line of overheating—to feel adrenaline burning through his veins. This is how _torini_ were meant to live and quite possibly die.

Especially if he doesn't come up with an ingenious plan within the next three seconds. He takes a breath and charges the animal, roaring at the top of his lungs.

_Okay, maybe more insane than ingenious_.

The beast hesitates, but then rears up at him, massive claws striking out. Taking advantage of the exposed belly, he overheats his rifle, bringing the creature back to ground. When the massive, furry, feline-esque head rushes at him, he reacts, spinning his rifle around to grip the red-hot barrel. Swinging with everything he's got left, he bashes the _terentira_ over the muzzle with the weapon.

When the animal collapses, he hits it another three times before his rifle falls apart in his hands. He sprints down the narrow canyon, racing toward the Reaper ground units, but stops when he realizes that the _tirentira_ isn't chasing him. In fact, he's laid it out cold. A sharp wave of self-congratulations washes over him. He might have been sitting on the sidelines for too long, but he's still got it.

At the cost of his rifle. Damn. They'd been together a long time. The rest of his squad creep out of hiding, give the large animal a dose of tranquilizer, and then drag it to the dead end another dozen metres up the canyon. Once the area's clear, he returns, talons slow and reluctant over the rock. He bends to gather up the pieces, feeling equal parts sorrow and embarrassment. Grown _torins_ —generals … primarchs—don't keen over broken rifles, even ones that are their last link to ...

Small comfort exists in not having to leave the pieces behind.

The trap goes off without a hitch, four hundred husks of different varieties end up shredded at the bottom of the canyon, no hint that the enemy units didn't just follow a false trail. His team slips back into the jungle, returning to the caverns. Other days have seen loss, but today he brings home everyone he took out. He's suffered only one casualty, and it resides in his belt pouches.

He grabs a meal on his way through the kitchens, shoving it down his throat as he stands over his console in the war room. Commodus will grumble about any crumbs he leaves behind, but instead of deterring him, that fact actually adds to the enjoyment of his meal.

Shifting restlessly from foot to foot, he chafes beneath a combination of anticipation, impatience, and hide abrasion. Truth be told, he's dying for a shower—there's some sort of pollen or tree dust out there that has taken up residence in his armour—but he's afraid the moment he leaves, Shepard will call.

Between Traynor and his techs, they've figured out how to route the call through the _Indomitable._ They've promised that as long as he keeps the communication short, it should be impossible for the Reapers to trace the signal to either end.

After an hour he's ready to strip down in the comm room. Whatever got into his armour feels as though it's gnawing through his hide and into his flesh. A nest of _netichiks_ wouldn't be as irritating.

"Do I need to be in the comm room?" he demands, his frustration snapping out at the young tech. He rumbles an apology when the private flinches away from him, but his skin is crawling, and he bulls forward. "Can it be routed to my omnitool?"

The young _torin_ pales three shades and nods. "Yes, sir, Primarch Victus, sir. I'll transfer it through as soon as it comes in."

Relief incoming! Thank the spirits. His inflamed hide and impatience both insist he run over to thank the youth, but deciding that might give the poor fellow a heart seizure, Victus heads for his quarters at a quick march.

Halfway through his shower, Shepard calls. He slaps the water control before accepting the call and activates his omnitool before sliding it into the implant in his wrist.

"Oh dear lord," Shepard cries when her sallow, drawn face appears. His throat closes, trapping his breath in his lungs. She looks like a corpse, grey and pale, dark shadows inhabiting every hollow while the skin looks stretched over her brow, chin, and cheekbones. Still, her smile is bright as she groans. "Now you've done it. I'm a creeper. I'm watching you in the shower."

Chuckling to hide his embarrassment, he strides over to grab his robe, shrugging into it. "Better?" He hops up on the counter next to his sink. "How are your feeling? You look like complete _tarc_."

Shepard shrugs. "I feel like _tarc_ , but better today. The pain is settling. You don't have to worry about me." She relaxes onto her cot, leaning back against the metal tube. "You should have been there, Adrien." A half-smile tugs on side of her mouth back, and as she speaks, he hears wonder, disbelief, and fear all tangled up in her tone. "Huge, ancient beings that look like organic Reapers. They ran the galaxy for untold millions of years."

She let out a bitter sound, halfway between a curse and a turian chuff. "Well, they ran it until they built an AI to solve the problem of organics and artificial life killing each other off. The AI then built Harbinger out of their corpses."

Victus shuddered at that, but pushed it aside. "How did they kill the Reaper?" he asks, wincing a little at his single mindedness, but he wants the fucking war over already, so he never again has to see her looking like she does in that moment. "Will they be of use?"

The enthusiasm behind her nod dispels all of his misgivings. "Oh yeah. They have this power to override … dominate other beings' wills. When we were pulling out, they turned all the Reaper ground troops against one another and dropped one of the capital Reapers right out of the sky, dead as a door nail."

Victus cocks a brow plate at the strange idiom, but after a fashion it makes a sort of sense. "So, that's good news then." He forces a smile, trying to see past the mask of death. She usually glows with an inner fire that burst from every pore like tiny novas. Even if only temporarily, that fire has gone out.

"So, that's my last couple of days." She shifts around on the mattress as if looking for a comfortable position. "What about you? Have you heard from Terion?"

"Yes." Victus shifts, the metal counter pressing into his pelvis. He should have sat on the toilet, but that probably would have led to a creeper meltdown on the other end. "He's well ... guarding one of the other safe havens. He says to tell Garrus that his task force is saving a lot of lives."

"I'll tell him that they did okay." She smiles. "You know how big his head already is. If it gets much larger, we'll have to strap a skycar around his neck to carry it." A long breath whispers across the light years between them.

"So, as I've said at least once before, you're good at hiding it, but something's wrong. What happened?" Shepard leans toward her omnitool. "You look like someone kicked your puppy. Is everything okay? Are the civilians still secure?"

It takes him a few seconds to sort the figurative from the literal meaning of what his translator tells him, but then he nods. "Yes, the civilians are fine. We've lost a few soldiers to the fauna: we're using the animals to take out the Reaper ground units in order to disguise our numbers." He shrugs, the gesture far more casual than he feels. "I used my Phaeston as a club to beat off a massive animal … a _tirentira … today._ Smashed the rifle into five pieces over the creature's skull."

Shepard frowns, her head tilting a little, chin rising. "It meant something to you. It wasn't just a rifle." Her tone says that she understands, and maybe she does.

"My bond-mate and _pahirs_ gave it to me when I shipped out on my first posting as lieutenant commander and XO of the _Indomitable_." Another shrug … another lie. "The rifle was practically an antique. Time to trade for a more modern model."

"No, Adrien." She leaned in closer, almost as if they were in the same room rather than speaking across the width of the galaxy. "No." He can see her swallow, the muscles at her jaw clenching as she shakes her head. "I mean, yes, get a new rifle, because I've gotten rather accustomed to a version of you without holes riddled everywhere, but … ." One hand lifting toward him, she smiles, her fingers trying to touch his through the screen. "We lose so much, Adrien. So much that can't be replaced. It's not wrong to want to hold onto something … anything."

He wishes he could reach out and touch her. A thousand words all demand that he speak them, but when he opens his mouth, he says, "I can't talk long. We're routing this through the _Indomitable's_ comm relay."

"Then I should go." The risk replaces her smile with a scowl in an instant. She lifts a hand when he opens his mouth again to take the words back. Damn, he can be such an idiot. "No, Adrien … it's okay. I'm okay. Don't risk the Reapers locating your ship."

"We're setting up a new comm tower in jungle, so hopefully, in a couple of days we'll have regular comms back up." He straightens. "I'll call as soon as it's up. Meanwhile, rest and get all the way back to 100%. We need you."

The smile returns as she brushes the backs of her fingers across her brow. "I will. You stay safe, _micardelis_."

A startled laugh escapes at the endearment. "Who's been teaching you the closed dialect?" As if he doesn't know.

She shrugs. "It's been a long day stuck inside the giant, metal sausage. Garrus was here, so I sang ' _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ ' until he let me into the super-secret turian club." Her laugh eases his fear. "I'll be out of here in another day, and then we're off to talk to the quarians. Behave yourself, Primarch. I'll talk to you when we get back."

And once again, she vanishes, but he's left with her slightly botched pronunciation of _micardelis_ … beloved friend. It's not _caris_ , but Shepard is the sort to leave it to him to lead them into new territory.

* * *

"Peace between the geth and the quarians?" Victus shakes his head, a wide, incredulous smile meeting the admiral's wry expression. "Is there anything she can't do?"

Hackett chuckles. "I sure hope not considering what we've got cooking for the next couple of weeks." The older man relaxes into an easy parade rest. "When I debriefed her after Rannoch, she gave me strict orders to avoid telling you that she boarded a geth dreadnought to disable its shields, then narrowly escaped in a geth fighter while the quarians were blowing the shit out of the dreadnought." He shakes his head and brings up the galaxy map on the secondary QEC.

"Anything else you aren't supposed to tell me?" Victus asks, cocking a hip, his arms crossing over just below his keel. Although he's fairly sure Shepard meant for Hackett to keep her secrets, he's pleased that the admiral is willing to risk her wrath and let him into the loop. Or is that bring him into the loop? Encase him in the loop? Enloop him? Whatever. He's glad to be included.

Hackett shrugs even as he begins entering the Alliance information onto the map. "She did point out that it would be better if you didn't know that she entered the geth consensus, extracted a Reaper virus from their servers, and then led an attack on a Reaper destroyer on foot using a targeting laser."

"Why wouldn't I be fine knowing all of that?" Victus shakes his head, but there's no terrible clench in his belly that time. Garrus is right. It's just part of who Shepard is, and somehow she always manages to get through whatever disaster she jumps into.

Bringing up the turian data, Victus takes a deep breath. She'll get through whatever madness she's into. He smiles, a tiny, secret smile. When he first left the _Normandy_ , he missed her constantly, but now … now she's always there, in his head and heart, so close he feels as though she's standing just out of sight.

He closes his eyes for a half second, then takes a deep breath. "How close are we to deploying the Crucible, Admiral?" he asks as he looks up. "Do I need to start pulling in ships?"

Hackett lifts a datapad. "Shepard landed on Thessia four hours ago. There's a heavy Reaper presence, so I don't expect to hear from her until she completes her mission. Apparently, the asari have been holding out on us and have significant intel on the Catalyst." Hackett taps at the pad, and a second later, information appears overlaying the galaxy map. "Liara T'Soni sent this to me just before they hit the ground."

Victus reads down the file then looks up, staring at Hackett, looking for confirmation … something … anything to make sense of the asari keeping such vital information secret. "They've sat there, watching our people die … ." He shakes his head and draws in a long, calming breath. Anger won't solve anything. Shepard's on the ground, working the problem. She'll come through.

Dismissing the files, he brings up his fleet deployment. "All right, so counting on Shepard bringing us the missing piece of your monstrosity, what do you want me to start pulling in?"

It's long past the middle of the night when they finally close the channel and he retires to his quarters to sleep.

* * *

Shepard has been out of contact five days and Victus is hunched over a schematic of the area, deep in concentration, when one of the scouts sprints into the war room with a crate under her arm. A wide grin blossoms across her face as she holds it out to him. "This package just dropped out of the sky for you, Primarch." A sharp, cheery laugh and incredulous shrug follow his accepting it.

"Any sign the Reapers saw it come in?" he asks, setting it down on the war table. He eyes it with suspicion and a vague unease fluttering in his gut. It's a mystery, and he's never particularly enjoyed mysteries.

"No, sir. A shuttle swooped in and tossed it out the window at my patrol. We were three clicks from base at the time." Her grin widened and her shoulders squared, proud and competent. "We circled the area to be sure no Reapers were closing in on us before returning to base. We doubled back a few times, but the shuttle must have come in running silent."

Victus gives her a starched nod of approval. "Excellent. Thank you, Lieutenant." He watches after her, delaying the inevitable. Damned mysteries. What could possibly necessitate making a run to Oma Ker to drop a package? Activating his omnitool, he scans the crate for explosive devices, bugs, or other traps. Nothing.

"You going to open it, sir?" Ralayis asks, peering over his shoulder. "It could be from command." Her expression screams 'gift' rather than 'weapon of mass destruction'. "What if it's some new super-weapon the techs whipped up?"

He chuckles, her eagerness breaking suspicion's hold on him. "I think a super-weapon would come through a more official channel." Unlatching the crate, he opens it carefully despite the clear scan. Inside, nestled between two layers of thick, formed foam, lies … a rifle? After a moment of surprise, he traces the length of it with his talons. Spirits … it's ….

"Oh, she's a beauty," Ralayis says, a whistle of appreciation underscoring the words. "That's a … " She backs up a little, flicking the talons of one hand and clicking her mandibles, clearly searching her memory. "... Mattock? They're a human rifle. Out of production now, really rare, but they last forever."

Spying a slip of paper tucked into the foam, he doesn't bother to ask about the depth of her rifle knowledge. He unfolds it, his lack of proficiency in human common struggling with the terrible penmanship.

" _Can't have a primarch without a really amazing weapon. It's just too sad. I know this can never replace the one your wife and kids gave you, but she's done well by me over the last couple of years. I know she'll keep you safe for me."_

He reads the note twice before folding the paper and tucking it into his armour. Slipping his talons between the foam and the weapon, he lifts it free of the crate. It has an excellent heft to it, the balance perfect, the weight settling into his hands as if it belongs there. Looking up at Ralayis, he grins. "Well?"

"Oh, it's you, sir. It's very you." The young _tarin's_ chuckle livens the dreary war room as Victus turns back to the crate.

She sent him her rifle. His grin feels ridiculously huge, so he ducks his head to hide it from the others in the room. Despite his reluctance to let it go, he's all too keenly aware of the eyes watching him, so sets in back into the crate and seals it.

She sent him her rifle. His hand rests on the pieces of his previous weapon, still safely ensconced in his belt pouches. Perhaps she was right. In the morning, he'll head for the armoury and see if someone can repair it. Not so that it fires … that chapter of his life is over … but to keep, a cherished memory. He smiles again and sets the crate down on the floor.

She sent him her rifle.


	8. Chapter Eight -- Wishes and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A haunted look passes across her face, almost too quick to notice, but then it disappears and the smile returns before he can regret his words. It occurs to him in that second that as much as he hopes for a future after the war, he hasn't thought about what it looks like. Does it involve bonding? Kids? Does Shepard even want any of that? Of course, they're friends … the Spectre and the primarch … she might not even want him, so why would it come up?
> 
> The picture jerks and then jiggles a bit before Vakarian's face appears next to Shepard's. "Has the fleet amassed for Shield and Sword?"
> 
> Victus nods. "They're all here."

**Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Hideth Turram** \- A game played by two teams of fifteen players. A _drellak_ hide is hung on a six metre tall pole in the center of a field that measures one hundred and fifty metres long by thirty metres wide. A twenty-four metre tall scaffolding tower stands at either end of the field. The field, which begins as turf, is soaked to provide a further obstacle, one that becomes only more and more difficult to surmount as it gets churned to mud.

 **Ylasiun** \- The ancient turian version of heaven. The realm where all honourable warriors spent eternity.

 **Patrem** \- Father

 **Micardelis** \- Dear or beloved friend. An endearment that expresses the greatest love and respect.

Merry conversation almost drowns Shepard out when she answers his call. Her face appears, laughing and flushed, and his heart stops, reality tumbling away. Is there a war? Did he sleep through the end of it? From his conversation with Hackett the previous day, he knows that she's been dragged through the pits and yet there she is, laughing and bright and beautiful. Maybe they've already won somehow, and he's just the last to know.

"Jane?" he calls, not bothering to hide his confusion and concern.

"Adrien." Delight fills her tone, spilling over into a wide grin. She turns away from her omnitool. "Hey, crazy people! Shut up!" She returns, the background noise unabated. "Hold on, Primarch. I'm going to head upstairs and shut a door. The crew is all here and all either still partially drunk or hungover. There won't be any shutting them up now that James has started cooking breakfast."

He hears a door shut, then the image blurs and bounces before settling back on her face. He blinks a few times and swallows. Thank the spirits he isn't prone to motion sickness.

"There we go." She grins and stretches. "So, hi!"

Victus's smile mingles with a sigh. "Hi. What's going on? Did you win the war? Can we all come up for air now?"

Her smile fades, and he sees that Thessia is there, just under the surface. The crack in her armour betrays how hard she's fighting to hold it at bay. Of course, he had to remind her of the galaxy resting on her shoulders; guilt wraps one tight fist around his throat and another around his heart. Sometimes he's such an idiot.

 _Nice work, Victus_.

It only takes a moment for Shepard to recover, and she shakes her head. "No. After Thessia, Hackett ordered us into dry-dock to get the _Normandy_ fit for the final battle. As usual, all hell broke loose. Long story short: an evil Cerberus Shepard clone tried to steal my life. I killed her, and we had a massive party afterward." Her grin returned. "I drank my weight in Crown Royal—don't ask me where Joker managed to find Canadian whisky—and woke up this morning next to Garrus. Due to the fact that we were both fully clothed, and I show no sign of abrasions, I'm 225% certain nothing happened other than passing out. Still, he's insisting we get married just in case he's pregnant."

"It's never going to happen!" Victus hears in the background, the words muffled enough to be shouted through the door. _Tarc_ , either Garrus has stunning hearing, or he's really close. "She won't buy me the dress I have my heart set on."

"What are you still doing in my bathroom?" Shepard shoots back. "You've been in there for an hour."

"It's not easy or quick to look as good as I do." Vakarian's voice becomes clear as Victus hears a door open. "Don't mock the process."

Victus's laugh flows easily where it would have been forced even a month before. It pleases him that he's lost the senseless jealousy. Shepard and Garrus's humour, while always slightly off and goofy … well, it's them. They've fought through more than enough fire and taken more than enough bullets for one another to make whatever terrible jokes bring them some happiness.

"I wish you both many blessings and strong, if odd-looking, babies," he replies. "And spirits, Shepard … it's his special day … buy him the damned dress."

A haunted look passes across her face, almost too quick to notice, but then it disappears and the smile returns before he can regret his words. It occurs to him in that second that as much as he hopes for a future after the war, he hasn't thought about what it looks like. Does it involve bonding? Kids? Does Shepard even want any of that? Of course, they're friends … the Spectre and the primarch … she might not even want him, so why would it come up?

The picture jerks and then jiggles a bit before Vakarian's face appears next to Shepard's. "Has the fleet amassed for Shield and Sword?"

Victus nods. "They're all here. The homeworld and colonies are defenseless, every last ship, body, and resource waiting for the word from Hackett." He meets and holds Shepard's stare, realizing that he's never asked his next question despite having been part of the end game planning meetings all along. "He's the person to lead the final assault, right?" Not that he's offering. He has other places to be.

Shepard shrugs. "I believe he is, but at this point, with less than a week left before we go in … does it matter? We've got who and what we've got."

Vakarian's mandibles flare a little, and he clears his throat. "I'll be staying with Shepard, Primarch."

Confirmation, even though he's assumed Vakarian would remain at Shepard's side, reassures him. He'll never be able to run into the fire at her side, but he knows there's no one better able to get her through. Shepard and Vakarian together are the reason they're poised, ready to end the damned war. "I never thought otherwise, Vakarian. You two are the go-to runners. We'll block for you the best we can."

Shepard's smile belies her hearty groan. "No! Please, show mercy, no _hideth turram_ metaphors. Do you know how many times a day I have to listen to _hideth turram_ metaphors?" She bumps Vakarian. "Go eat some breakfast. Our relay slot is in 132 minutes."

He sighs. "Fine, I'll leave you alone." After disappearing for a second, Vakarian pops back into screen and slings an arm around Shepard's neck. "Do you really think our babies would be odd looking?"

The laugh that roars from Victus's throat forms a moment of _ylasiun_. "With you as their _patrem_? Spirits, how could they be anything but?"

Shepard grins as she reaches up to pat her best friend's mandible. "Get lost, Vakarian, and take some Oxyhydran, I think you might still be drunk."

Vakarian disappears again but this time his footsteps leave the room and a door shuts. Victus smiles. "It's good to see everyone in high spirits."

Her nod accompanies a slow slump into her pillows. "Yeah, well, we're all coming to the end, aren't we? Nothing to do but stick a smile on our faces, tell a few bad jokes, and sail into hell."

"Jane?" Concern and sorrow take up arms, preparing to do battle over control of his heart rate at the defeat creeping into her tone. "Talk to me."

She shakes her head and presses her lips tight. "It's okay. It's just, last night felt so normal after Thessia … and everything." The pain in her smile relaxes enough that her lips turn up at the corners. "Missed you, though." The view swoops and tosses as she rolls over onto her side. "Anyway … normal … yeah, it was nice. Staying here, in a real apartment, friends and family, it gave us a chance to step away from the forest to see the trees." A quick exhale, almost noisy enough to be a raspberry follows a long inhale. It feels as though she's bracing herself.

"It just makes me a little sad for all the things they're never going to get a chance to have," she says. "Joker and EDI getting a chance for a first real date … Tali finding Kal'Reegar again and raising their kids under the open skies of Rannoch … Kaidan, James, and Steve finding someone who'll put up with career soldiers." A long, slow sigh whispers over the mike, but it eases the sorrow on her face. "Liara and Javik deserve to get a chance to realize that they argue all the time for a reason. And Garrus." Her lips tighten again, her voice getting thin and reedy as she says, "He deserves to be taken care of and loved the way he's taken care of and loved me over the years."

"And you?" he asks, his voice scarcely louder than her breathing. Pressure blocks his throat and sinuses, the sorrow heavy and thick. He wants to tell her that she has nothing to worry about. He wants to say that in a week, they'll all be celebrating their victory, but he's turian. Lying to either of them that way isn't in his skill set.

"I just grew up assuming that I'd get married some day and have a couple of kids. When I joined the Alliance, I assumed I'd retire from killing people eventually to spend my days doing something that gave me both a sense of purpose and peace of mind." She closes her eyes. "Not going to happen now. No more parties."

"You can't give up hope, Jane." He wishes he could reach through and stroke her hair the way he did after Mahavid. He wishes he could curl up behind her and wrap her in his arms … to comfort her even if just for a moment. "If you give up hope, that date … our date will never happen."

Eyes opening, she nods. "I know, and some of the time I haven't, not really. Sometimes it's just all very … " Her shoulders tilt in a shrug. "... too much." Her chuckle sounds both sad and wry. "I was going to be a schoolteacher."

While he understands it, her moment of self-pity flips a switch in his gut. She'll end up dead, and before the end, if she keeps thinking this way. "I'm glad you're not a school teacher," he replies, his tone hard, subvocals laced with impatience. "If you were a school teacher, we'd all be dead right now." When she opens her eyes and props herself up on her elbow to stare at him, he shrugs. "I happen to believe that we're each born into the circumstance where we're most needed."

"No interchangeable parts?" she asks, her expression so open and vulnerable it takes all his strength not to blurt out how much he loves her.

Instead, he pulls it all back. She needs calm, confident Adrien, not emotional insanity Adrien. "No interchangeable parts. Without you right where you are and without me right where I am … disaster."

Light returns to her stare, easing the sick tension in his gut. "Under any other circumstance we wouldn't have met." The bright green of her gaze sparkles like a faceted gem. "And that would have been a shame."

Mouth open to answer, he's interrupted by his assistant. "Primarch?"

Anger and impatience flare in his gut as Ralayis pounds on his door. Dear spirits, every moment he isn't asleep is theirs. Can't he have a just a few …? He crushes his reaction between clenched teeth. "What is it?"

"A call for you on the QEC. It's Admiral Hackett, sir."

"I'll be right there." He pushes up off the side of his bed. " _Tarc_ , I've got to go. Talk to you tonight?" Spirits he hopes so. Despite all his encouraging words, he feels their clock ticking down just as keenly as she does.

"Tonight," she agrees. "It'll be late, so turn on privacy when you go to sleep. I don't want to wake you up." Her fingers brush her brow. "Have a primarchified day, Adrien." Despite the joke, she doesn't laugh. Instead, she stares into his eyes, all that hope and sweet openness pouring into him as if she has something she very much wants to say. Instead, she smiles. "I'm really glad we aren't interchangeable parts, _micardelis_."

He remembers that he forgot to thank her for the rifle just as she disappears. Oh well, he'll thank her tonight. Now to see what Hackett needs.

* * *

 **Ungentira** \- A large warm blooded, cat-like predator native to the high mountains of Palaven. It is neither mammal or reptile, but has aspects of both, featuring a heavy, plated hide along its back, and a rich, luxurious pelt along their underside. They are ferocious predators, frequently taking on prey three or four times their size, which is approximately the same as a labrador retriever. Three, five centimeter claws on all four feet and large fangs are their primary weapons, but they also have a poison spike at the end of their tail used for defence.

 **Katibulum** \- turian version of a menagerie. A collection of animals kept for the purpose of private viewing and entertainment.

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Tussat Flower** : A large, blue-green flower that forms on a cactus type plant with long, oval pads. When the flower goes to seed, the petals are replaced by a very tough but delicate silk fibre used in weaving. **Tussat silk** is extremely soft but hardy, making it a favourite material for clothing, linens, and upholstery.

 **Tarin** \- Turian female over the age of majority (15)

 **Sorbicum** \- A dextro MRE that combines ground meat and siligur into large, pellet-shaped meatloaf-like nuggets. They're served in a spicy, _fragrutis_ (edible, hot and peppery cactus analogue) stew/gravy. Although hardly appealing to look at, it is a troop favourite.

 **Stulti mendur** \- Literal: foolish lies. Vernacular: Bullshit. Short form: Stulti

 **Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

Victus enters his cabin on the _Indomitable_ and lets out a sharp sigh of relief. _Tarc,_ it's good to be back on his ship again. As comfortable as his quarters were on Oma Ker, he felt caged in there, an _ungentira_ pacing in a _katibulum_. As he throws his kit down on the short couch, he lets out another, almost fierce, rumble of discontent.

Most of his unease is thanks to being unable to talk to Shepard except for short bursts over the past couple of weeks. The work is the work: he's fought most of his life and led troops for over half of that time. While the Reapers increase the emotional toll of the work, the nature of it remains the same. War is war.

When he met her, Shepard reintroduced a dimension to his life that transcended war, and he's sorely missed it thanks to Oma Ker's isolation and Shepard needing to race to fire after fire.

He misses _her._

Checking his chrono, he wonders if he should call her. She said she'd be late, and she hasn't left any messages. No, he'll unpack, take a shower, and call down to the galley for something to eat while he answers the veritable mountain of messages awaiting him.

He's clean, dry, and comfortable in his _tussat-silk_ robe, working his way through a double portion of _sorbicum_ and his messages when his omnitool beeps at him.

"Adrien." Shepard practically lunges at her omnitool the moment he opens the channel. Wide, swollen, red eyes grab hold of him like a drowning _tarin_ grabbing hold of rescue in a stormy sea. His heart leaps up to race in his throat. Spirits, what's happened. Before he can say anything, she reaches up as if she's trying to touch his face. "Hi. God, it's good to see you."

Rather than alleviating his concern, the greeting accelerates it to FTL. She looks frantic, on the verge of panic, and for a moment, he considers telling Hackett to shove the Crucible, he's headed to find the _Normandy_.

"Shepard … " He shakes his head. Really, he went straight to Shepard? "... Jane, what's happened? Are you all right? Vakarian … is the crew all right?"

She nods, taking breaths so deep that he can see her chest heaving. The effort she's putting into keeping her emotions under control drives a spike of panic straight through his temples. Dear spirits, what in the name of _buratrum_ could have happened? For a moment, she holds her own, but then her tenuous control shatters, and her face disappears, her duvet filling the screen.

Muffled sobbing reaches across the light years, and for a moment, the pain of the distance between them tips him toward panic. He should be there. Why hadn't he just stayed on the _Normandy_? Only arrogance told him that he needed to be on the ground. He's become a figurehead, and they can lead from anywhere. Hell most of his predecessors led from bunkers during times of war.

Dragging himself from his moment of self-loathing, he pitches his voice to draw her back. "Jane, please, talk to me." He clears his throat, a soft keen escaping. "At least let me see your face. I don't care if you're crying." His mind races, trying to discern the cause of her upset. Could it be Thessia finally caught up with her? He knows that both the matriarchs and Councilor Tevos blame Shepard for Thessia's fall.

At that thought, a low growl spools straight out of his gut. If that's the case, he'll leave the fleet to board the Citadel and kick them all in the ass.

It's complete _stulti!_ He stood there as Tevos told Shepard that she wouldn't attend because their summit was doomed to failure. He stood there when the krogan joined the fight and Tevos reacted to Shepard's triumph by saying that the asari needed to look to their own borders. The asari's lack of action doomed them. What the _tarc_ could Shepard do against an entire planet covered in Reapers?

After waiting for a couple more seconds, he repeats his plea. "Jane. Please don't hide from me."

Subvocal rumbles of comfort and love eventually ease Shepard up off her mattress, her eyes bloodshot and still streaming tears when she looks into the screen. "You said this morning that you'd heard about Thessia?" she asks, her tone a statement rather than a question.

"I did." He lifts his talons to the imager, wishing he could touch her. She mirrors his action, their finger and talon tips meeting at the barrier of light. He knows she won't accept any excuses, so pushes past trying to comfort her with platitudes. "Hackett says that you have a promising lead on the Cerberus operative?"

She sniffs and wipes her face on her sleeve. "Yeah, we know where he is. Picked up a clue that led us to Sanctuary." Her breath hiccups, her chest spasming as if she's had the wind knocked out of her. It takes a moment before he realizes that she's fighting tears again. "On Sanctuary we picked up a tracker that led us right to him." A ragged sob tears from her as if someone had reached down into her chest and ripped it out.

"What is it, _caris_?" He bites down on the last word too late, but she shows no sign of having understood the endearment.

She swallows so hard he can hear the cartilage in her throat click. "I sent families there." Her jaw muscles bunch and relax a couple of times before she continues. "I sent kids there, Adrien."

He nods. "Of course you have; it's an Alliance safe haven."

She shakes her head, the movement violent and filled with rage. "No, it isn't. It's a lie." Again the forced swallow, and he wonders if part of the battle is trying not to throw up. "It was a lie," she corrects. "It was Cerberus, Adrien. They built that massive complex to lure people in, and then they … " Three heaving breaths follow before she forces out the rest. "... they turned all those people into Reaper monsters. They experimented on them … turned them into monsters so they could learn how to control them … how to control the Reapers." She lets out a low moan that sounds like razor wire being pulled from her throat. " And if they weren't of use in the experiments, they were just disposed of."

"Disposed of." The words fade to hang between them like ghosts. Her face crumbles again, but at least this time, as the tears fall, she doesn't turn away, trusting him to see her at her most vulnerable … trusting him to honour her pain. "I sent families there … babies and little kids … old people. Oh fuck, Adrien. The things Cerberus did to those poor people."

Fury flares bright and hot in his chest. Not just for the lie, for the trap that killed who knew how many of his people, and not just for the horrors Cerberus visited upon innocents within walls that promised safety. No, his fury sharpens to a point so much smaller and so much more personal.

"Jane … " His talons reach out across the light years again. "... what happened to those people isn't on you." He winces at the words despite their truth, because she already knows it. It rankles that he can truly do nothing to help other than be there.

She nods and sniffs, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. "I know." She draws in a long, shaky breath. "And falling apart doesn't help them." A sharp, intake of breath accompanies a shudder so violent it looks as though she's trying to shake off Sanctuary and all its tragedy. "All I can do is find Kai Leng, get the Catalyst, and end Cerberus."

Tears continue to roll down her cheeks, but she's pulled it all back under control. "Sorry," she says, her face flushing across her nose, "I thought I had it all buttoned down before you answered."

He just shakes his head, the ache in his chest spiking for a moment before easing. How does he say that he's honoured that she trusts him to see her that way without confessing his feelings? Or at least, betraying them. He almost changes the subject, but stops himself, unsure if she's ready to move on. Spirits, he's useless. Did he flounder this badly when Lanira faced upset? No, but he hadn't had to dance around a barrier with her either.

Then he remembers the rifle and grabs hold of it like an offer of salvation. Terion was right, that night on the Citadel. Victus should have told Shepard how he felt before he left the _Normandy_ , because now his cowardice forms an impenetrable wall between them. "Thank you for the airdrop a few days ago. It's a great rifle. My assistant, Ralayis, assures me that I look completely badass carrying it."

That earns him a genuine smile that pierces like sunshine through a stormy dawn. "Excellent. A primarch needs to look like a complete badass." She lays back, propping pillows behind her. "You in particular. The outside needs to reflect the _torin_ within."

"I usually like to fly beneath the radar, let them underestimate me, then take them by surprise." He shrugs and leans back in his chair, relaxing into the cushions. "But I can see the appeal of the blatant badass." His mandibles spread as he juts out his chin. "Wrex pulls it off." Arching his neck into his best approximation of a badass pose, he asks, "What do you think?"

A cheery laugh throws back the clouds. "Oh yes, the primarch groupies will swoon. So badass." Shepard pulls her duvet up under her chin, and he realizes that she's already in bed. "Spirits," she says and sighs, "it's been the longest fucking week. I just want to sleep for a year."

"Then go to sleep," he replies, the warmth in his chest glowing like the coals of a campfire on a cold evening and escapes through his subvocals. If he gets so lucky to be in the same space as her again, he won't be a coward, he promises himself that. The oath takes root at the core of him, and suddenly the wall doesn't seem so thick or solid. "You've got another long day ahead tomorrow."

She blinks, some of the pain fading from her features, and then her masks all fall away. "I do. Taking out Cerberus headquarters." Her eyes close, and a wan smile drifts across her lips. "I might even get a chance to stick a blade into the Illusive Man."

"Stick him once or twice for me," he says, teasing.

"You'll stay with me while I go to sleep?" she asks, then rolls over onto her side, curling in around a pillow, hugging it.

Victus doesn't know if he's ever ached for anything more than he yearns to sit beside her, to have her curl in against his side, her head on his chest, her breath whispering over his hide as she drifts off. "I will, _caris_. Go to sleep, and call me when you're done with Cerberus."

"Goodnight, Adrien." She shuffles a little, and whispers something that sounds like a prayer for Sanctuary's victims, but then her breathing levels out and she's asleep. With how fast and completely she crashed, he knows that the emotional upheaval and horror of the day have exacted a much heavier toll than the physical rigours.

He goes back to work, leaving the channel open just in case nightmares wake her. When he climbs into bed two hours later, he closes the channel, but before he succumbs to sleep, he leaves her a text message for when she wakes in the morning.

And then, in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, he makes a decision. He's not going to stay with Shield during the final battle. Wherever Shepard is, that's where he'll be, so likely on the Citadel, fighting to clear the way for the Crucible.

Whatever happens, he'll be there.

* * *

 **Quiritus** \- Applies to both genders equally. Equivalent to people or ladies and/or gentlemen.

 **Puer** \- Pueri plural. Child.

Hackett appears on the _Indomitable's_ QEC pad before Shepard gets in touch with Victus the next day. The admiral looks older and more drawn than anyone the primarch has ever laid eyes on.

"The Reapers have control of the Citadel, and they've moved it to Earth," Hackett says, aging another five years as he speaks. "I'm going to bring Admiral Anderson in on the call. He knows best what's happening on the ground."

Before the primarch can reply, a serious, battle worn looking soldier appears on the secondary pad and gives Victus a starched nod. "Primarch Victus, it's good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you over the last couple of months." He shifts into a stiff parade rest. "Shepard thinks very highly of you, sir."

Victus nods. "Pleasure to meet you as well, Admiral." He looks back and forth between the two men. "With the Citadel being in Earth orbit, what's the plan, _quiritus?"_

"The Citadel is closed," Anderson reports, "and the Reapers are consolidating their firepower to guard it."

Hackett worries his bottom lip, the only outward sign of how fast his wheels are spinning. "We're going to have to get a team onto the Citadel and get the arms open in order to dock the Crucible," he says after a few seconds. He turns toward Anderson. "Any ideas how we're going to do that?"

Anderson nods, stiffening. "Just after the Citadel arrived in orbit, the Reapers set up a beam that transfers equipment and prisoners from the surface to the station. There are some significant hurdles in the way of getting to it, including the Reaper destroyer guarding it, but it's the only way to access the Citadel."

The three of them plan for hours, updating the scheme as new intel comes in. When Victus shuts down the QEC, he isn't certain if the plan will work, but as Anderson stressed several times, they aren't left with any other choice.

He sends his orders to the fleet then retires to his cabin. After showering and busying himself taking care of a short list of detail work that probably won't matter in the least after the next day, he settles into bed, positive that he'll never sleep. Not that he wants to before Shepard checks in.

She calls just as his muscles begin to release and allow him to sink into the mattress. Ironically, the more he relaxes, the more everything hurts … at least, at first.

"So, Anderson and Hackett got to you, did they?" she asks right off, her expression tight.

"Yes, but we've got the broad strokes of a plan outlined." He turns over a little so he doesn't have to hold his arm up. "But, I don't want to talk about the war tonight." Studying her, he searches for any lingering traces of the pain she'd been in the night before. What he sees reassures him. "How are you feeling?"

She smiles and nods. "Better. I slept really well last night, and it felt really damned good to put Cerberus out of business." Her grin spreads. "And I got to drive another Atlas mech around. That never gets old."

"I'm glad you're feeling better, I was worried about you." A soft chuff and an embarrassed flutter of mandibles follows that admission, but he's sworn an oath to himself. No more being a coward. "You don't have to hide what you're going through from me, Jane. You can trust me."

Her eyes become glassy, but she smiles, stomping on his concern before it gets off the ground. "I do, and thank you for keeping an eye on me last night." She shrugs, her expression incredulous. "I feel like we've known one another forever."

Victus closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath. "I know what you mean."

An easy, drowsy silence drifts between them for long enough that Victus begins to lose the battle with sleep. No, not yet. He forces his eyes open, meeting her bright green stare.

"What's it like to be married?" she asks out of nowhere. Plumping the pillow under her head a little, she settles in before meeting his gaze again. "It must be nice to have someone there. I mean, someone who's there because they can't think of anywhere better to be than with you." She laughs, sharp and self-conscious. "That made no sense."

He shrugs, a slight pop of his free shoulder. "It's a lot like you and Garrus, actually … just with sex added." He chuckles when she sticks out her tongue at him. "That part is very pleasant."

"Just pleasant?" She shakes her head, then tucks her pillow in tighter under her head. "You might be doing it wrong, but … " A flush creeps over her nose and down her neck. "... I wouldn't really know."

He reins in his surprise, a sudden flush of both love and sorrow. Spirits, she hasn't even started her life and tomorrow … . Shaking that thought off, he smiles. "The best thing about having a bond mate was the small things." A bashful flutter of mandibles accompanies another shrug. "A brush of a hand down your arm or across your back in passing … quiet nights spent curled up together watching a vid or the stars … making a meal together … tag-team bathing the _pueri_."

"It sounds nice," she replies, her voice musical as it trails along a yawn.

"Stop that." His jaw lets out a painful snap as he mirrors her with a yawn of his own. "I don't want to fall asleep yet." Reaching behind his head, he sorts his pillows. "There are hard times as well. Times when you wonder what you were thinking agreeing to bond. Fights and stubborn silences and heartaches."

"But overall, it's worth it?" So much hope stares at him across the light years, that a soft keen slides from his throat. She believes she's never going to know for herself.

Tears burn behind his eyes as he nods, unable to speak for long seconds. Spirits, he loves her … his heart too large and pounding too hard, threatening to break out through his ribcage. "You'll know one day," he promises, another soft keen escaping along with the words. "You're young, and after tomorrow, you'll be free to live whatever life you wish."

Her eyes close. "I don't want to fight anymore, Adrien." A soft sigh punctuates the shake of her head. "I want so much more … all of what you said … even the fights and stubborn silences." Her voice fades as she falls asleep. "I don't want to be alone any more."

Reaching out, he brushes his talons over the image of her cheek. "You won't ever have to be, _caris_. I promise you that."

The most lovely smile unfurls across her lips, peaceful and content. "I'll hold you to that. Goodnight, Adrien." Her eyes open just a slit. "Spend tonight with me?" she asks as they drift closed.

"I'm right here," he says, forcing the words past his heart, which insists on remaining lodged in his throat. "I'm not going anywhere. Go to sleep." He watches her until his eyes refuse to remain open any longer, and he falls asleep to the soft whisper of her breathing.


	9. Chapter Nine -- One too many goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sheer noise level at the FOB announces Shepard's arrival. Victus steps out onto the roof of the building in time to see Shepard's shuttle fly into the command building. His heart hammers against his keel, and he wonders if he'll get a chance to see her before the push begins. In all likelihood, his day will end with a bullet, and he desperately wants to go to that end with a fresh memory of her face … her voice. He doesn't mind dying, not for a cause so just and vital, but without having seen her again, to have had the chance to touch her hair and maybe even hold her fingers in his talons once more … it would prove a cold death.

**Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Perir** \- Peririn plural. Male turian under the age of 15. Equivalent of boy.

 **Pahir** \- Son

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

"Primarch!" The young _torin_ striding through the rubble seems so much older than the _perir_ Victus said goodbye to a couple months before on the Citadel. Victus hurries forward, mandibles hanging slack in disbelief. Commander Terion Victus is one of the truest wonders he's ever seen.

They meet halfway, staring at one another for a moment before Victus reaches up to grip his _pahir's_ shoulders. "Terion! What are you doing down here? I thought you were with the fleet?"

His _pahir_ steps into the embrace, his hands strong and steady on Victus's shoulders. "I heard the primarch was fighting on the ground. What sort of turian lets his primarch go into battle without him?" Terion's mandibles flick with humour, but then he leans in, his brow heavy and comforting against Victus's. "There's no way I'm letting you go into this battle without me at your six, sir … _Pari._ "

Victus tightens the embrace. "And there's no one else I'd rather have at my back." He sighs, eyes narrowing as he catches a flicker of teasing in Terion's stare, and sets his tone in steel. "No one." Spirits, it's good to see his eldest. If they both survive the next several hours, he's going to ensure they don't settle back into the cycle of benign neglect.

Terion just nods, his mandibles fluttering hard. "Shepard's on her way in," he says, his expression falling into something a lot more serious. "Hammer got the _tarc_ kicked out of us in the landing. One of the teams assigned to bringing down the Hades' cannons was blown out of the sky, so Shepard rerouted to take care of it."

"Of course she did." Victus lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, the sigh caught halfway between relief and terror. That's why he hasn't heard from her, but now she's out there taking on one of the most heavily guarded assets in the city with only Vakarian and Vega to back her up.

Terion holds up a hand, stilling Victus's hasty questions before he can do much more than suck in a breath. "She reported in that the Hades is down, but her squad is pinned in the rubble at its base. Last I heard, Anderson took off in a shuttle to extract her." He smiled and clapped a hand down on Victus's shoulder. "They'll get her out." Bending over, he picks up his kit. "Meanwhile, I'd better report in and get geared up. Word is, Anderson wants to punch through, get troops on the Citadel as quickly as possible once Shepard arrives."

Victus nods. He spoke with the Admiral upon his arrival with the very first of the Hammer personnel. "I'll come with you," he says. "We're not short of things to keep us busy." And true to his words, he spends nearly forty minutes sorting his team leaders and getting them through requisitions.

The sheer noise level at the FOB announces Shepard's arrival. Victus steps out onto the roof of the building in time to see Shepard's shuttle fly into the command building. His heart hammers against his keel, and he wonders if he'll get a chance to see her before the push begins. In all likelihood, his day will end with a bullet, and he desperately wants to go to that end with a fresh memory of her face … her voice. He doesn't mind dying, not for a cause so just and vital, but without having seen her again, to have had the chance to touch her hair and maybe even hold her fingers in his talons once more … it would prove a cold death.

"Primarch Victus!" Ralayis shouts, racing over to him. "Admiral Anderson is back with Commander Shepard. He's calling for a planning meeting in forty-five minutes."

"Make sure that all our people double their rations and water purification tabs," Victus tells the _tarin_. "Have the unit commanders make sure their people are prepared to dig in and go it alone for a while." When the youngster salutes and races off, he turns to his second-in-command, still so much left to be done.

Garrus arrives, striding over to clasp wrists. "Primarch, it's good to see you." He grins. "It's been an adventure so far." He activates his omnitool. "Damn, Wrex still hasn't answered me about those supplies. Where's a runner?" His grin widens. "I'll be back once I get this damned krogan to cooperate." Already shouting into his radio, he moves over to a corner out of the way.

And then she's there. Victus hears her stride even before she enters the room, the familiar rhythm settling something deep in his core. Breathless, all the air suddenly sucked out of the room, he grins: he still remembers the exact weight and cadence of her steps. The door opens and she crosses the threshold, glancing around before her gaze lights on him and locks on. She crosses the room without looking away.

"Hey there, Primarch," Shepard says and smiles. Her lips tremble a little, but he can't tell if she's just very glad to see him or something's upset her. She already looks exhausted, and … spirits, is that blood pouring down the side of her head? In the dim light it's hard to tell against her hair.

Returning the smile, he reaches out to tuck her hair away from a decent slice in her scalp. "Getting yourself concussed before the big battle might not be the best plan." He tries for teasing, but damn it, if the blood running down her face doesn't shove a spool of razor-wire down his throat to wrap around his heart.

"Banshee claws," she replies and shrugs as if she's saying her hamster bit her. Even as she speaks, his hand moves to his belt pouch for medigel. The blood coursing down her face sets his stomach churning with a superstitious sort of panic, as if it's a portent of the battle's end, and he wants it gone.

His fear and denial screams so loud that he almost misses her saying, "No major damage. Looks worse than it is. Human heads bleed like crazy." She holds out her hand to clasp his wrist, then lets out a self-conscious chuckle. "Oh fuck it, it's been too long for handshakes. It's good to see you." With that, she steps into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He embraces her for a second before all the eyes watching them begin to burn through his plates and he pulls back, his hands sliding down her arms to take her hands. After another moment, he releases her and nods toward the door behind him. He doesn't want to say their goodbyes with handshakes and chugs on the shoulder, but he's still the primarch and can't make out in front of the troops.

Leading her out the door, he precedes her down the hall to his 'office'. Once someone's bedroom, it's now just a burned out shell with a filthy desk, a broken chair, and a half-missing exterior wall. He waits for her to go ahead, then digs his shoulder into the door, heaving it shut behind them. Once he's scraped it far enough across to block casual eyes, he turns to face her.

Shepard grins and nods toward the twisted door. "That's a lot of work for a little privacy."

He opens his mouth to say that it's so very worth it, but, "We don't have very long before Anderson's meeting," is what comes out. Flustered embarrassment flushes hot beneath his plates. "I mean they'll be expecting us out there soon." An exasperated chuff greets his lack of eloquence. " _Tarc_." Spirits, why is it so awkward all of the sudden? They've been more intimate over the comms, and now … he feels like a thirteen-cycle-old _perir_ trying to move in for his first brow touch.

But then Shepard shakes her head, a small wave dismissing any misunderstanding. "I know what you mean. Lots to say and not much time to say it." Leaning back to sit on the edge of his desk, she starts peeling off her torso armour, quickly stripping down to her bra. "It's a nightmare out there," she says, a slight shudder rippling through her. "I thought Thessia was bad, but this is a whole different level, you know?"

Once she's all but naked from the waist up, she freezes, her gaze darting up to meet his eyes, as if just realizing quite suddenly that he might not be comfortable in the presence of a half-naked friend.

A bashful shade of pink flushes up her neck and sets her cheeks glowing. "Oh, God, Adrien, I'm sorry. Too weird?" She points to the long rakes across her ribs then dives into her belt pouch, coming out with ampules of medigel. "More banshee claws." She waggles her head a little in a weighing gesture. "Different banshee, though. Sorry, though … I didn't think, I just registered that I had some privacy to do repairs."

Thankfully, his chuckle relaxes her and strips the awkwardness from the air. Flicking his mandibles in a slightly cocky grin, he holds up the ampule he's pulled for her head wound. "It's fine. I was going to treat the one bleeding you dry up there, anyway."

"Why, thank you, Primarch." Beaming, she hops the rest of the way up onto the desk, then sits still, her face turned up into the thin light. Digging back into his belt packs, he produces water and a cloth to wash away the blood.

Shepard leans into him a little as he cleans and treats her wound. "God, it really is good to see you," she says, "but I'm surprised you're here. I thought you'd be with the fleet rather than making suicidal shuttle runs to the surface."

"There," he says, covering the slice with an adhesive. "All better."

All trace of humour falling away, Shepard captures his hands, holding his talons in hers. "What are you doing down here rather than with Shield, Adrien?"

Shrugging, he answers her query with a smile that feels plastered on and false. He's held her for a couple of seconds, and yet his arms ache to pull her back in, as if that brief exposure has convinced them that she belongs within their circle. Not to mention all that skin begging his talons to trace the scars that line its surface and caress the pale, freckled expanses between.

It takes no small amount of effort to beat down his yearning and focus on her question. "Well, I could say that I wanted to repay the favour in person, ride in to save the day on Earth as you did on Menae."

She squeezes his talons and smiles, warming and lighting the room. "But?" She stares up at him, brows lifted in query for several long seconds before she releases him and turns her attention to spreading medigel over a long slice that follows one of her ribs. Instead of answering, he watches her work, his brain suddenly and distressingly empty.

Once her skin is sealed, she performs the same patch job on her underarmour and chest guard but with omni-gel. "There." That finished, all her attention focuses on him. "But?" The fingertips of one hand lift to press against his keel, her face tilting to smile up at him.

He wraps his talons around her fingers, squeezing them tight, wishing he could feel their warmth, the callouses just below each crease. "But it would be a lie." He shakes his head, emotions he's not used to expressing wrapping around the base of his tongue. "I didn't want to join the spirits without seeing you again."

She lifts their joined hands, turning hers around to lace her fingers between his talons. "You aren't going anywhere, Primarch. You've got a planet to rebuild when all this is over." Her gaze leaves his eyes to stare at their hands. "Thank you, Adrien," she says after a long silence, "for being my steady shoulder. There were days that I scraped through only because talking to you waited at the end of all the shit." Meeting his eyes again, she smiles. "You've been a really good friend."

He nods, stiff and formal. "Of course. You've been a good friend as well." A bleak sort of emptiness greets the word friend. Was that why he wanted to see her again? To shake hands and thank her for her friendship? Or did he want to face his destiny with a heart free of the burden of his unexpressed love? What of the oath he'd made to be brave and just tell her the truth?

"Adrien?"

Her voice eases the words free and they tumble out in an exasperated rush. "Spirits, I didn't want to see you again to thank you for your friendship, Jane." He tugs on their hands even as he steps toward her. "I do, of course, but … ." A ragged sigh rumbles through his subvocals. "I love you." His talons lift to brush her cheek. Damn his gloves. "I've been in love with you since before I left the _Normandy._ I …. " He shrugs, heat burning beneath his plates again. He feels like a teenager, stumbling through … one step from just passing her a note that says, 'I love Adrien. Yes. No. Circle one.' He's an idiot. "I just didn't want to go out there without telling you."

And then she steps into him, her arms circling his neck, drawing him down to press her brow to his. Beautiful even covered in filth and blood, she pulls back, gaze shining as it meets his, hopeful and waiting. It's up to him to make the next move. He's never considered kissing, other than watching humans do it with some curiosity, but suddenly he wants to feel her lips on his hide and presses his mouth against hers. She doesn't let the fact that he isn't really suited to the task stop her, moist, soft lips … spirits, they're so soft … caressing and tugging at the rigid plate.

She presses her body to his, even as she breaks the kiss and tucks her face into the curve of his throat. "If we live through this, you really do need to take me out to dinner," she says. Her breathy chuckle heats his neck in a most delicious way.

"That's a promise," he agrees, holding her tight, molding her to the left side of his body. "Thank you, Jane," he whispers, wanting to shelter the fragile sentiment in the air and warmth between them. "Thank you for reminding my heart what it felt like to beat for someone again."

She jumps and pulls away, and he worries he said too much until her hand leaps to her ear. "Yes, sir. Shepard here. On my way." After closing the channel, a soft chuckle rides a sharp breath. "I was enjoying that hug a little too much; Anderson scared the crap out of me." She cradles his face between her hands, then stands on her toes to press her lips against his mouth. "You've gotten me through, Adrien. No matter what, remember that. It's meant everything."

He reaches up, brushing the pad of a talon over her bottom lip

Pulling away, she shrugs back into her underlayer, then snaps her armour on overtop. Once he checks it over for her, she rolls her shoulders, settling her armour and the mantle of commander back in place. "They're waiting for us." She takes a step toward the door, then stops and turns back.

Cocking one brow plate, he asks, "Jane?"

After staring at him for a moment, she pulls off her gloves and tucks them in her belt. "Garrus told me that turians always wear gloves in public in order to make their talons look less intimidating." Reaching out, she snags one of his hands between both of hers. Deftly removing his glove, she looks up into his eyes. "He also says that for two turians to touch hands, bare skin on skin, it signifies a willingness to deepen their relationship."

Victus clears his throat, his heart feeling as though it has thrown a climbing hook up into his mouth and is clambering up the inside of his ribcage. Unable to get the words out, he simply nods to confirm that she speaks the truth.

Finished peeling the one glove off, she moves to his other hand, before hooking his gloves next to hers on her belt. Smiling, she looks up into his eyes, her hands held out, palms up in front of her.

His heart reaches the top of its rope, jamming itself into the back of his throat as if making a bid for freedom through the only avenue open to it. Staring into her eyes like a starving man at a feast, he lays his hands over hers, gripping them as if they are the only two real things in the entire galaxy. Tears burn behind his eyes as she squeezes his talons. Of course he wants more ... a deeper relationship. He wants every last moment, every smile, every tear—

"Good then," she says, matter-of-factly, blinking hard and fast. She nods and clenches her jaw, the small bulge of muscle there betraying her calm. "Glad we got that settled."

Victus draws her in against him, wrapping her arms around his waist before lifting his to cup her face. His thumbs caress her brow and cheekbones then linger over the soft, dampness of her lips. Spirits, how is he ever supposed to let her go now? He bends to kiss her once again, eyes closing, trying to embed every sensation and scent ... every single nuance into his memory. When she draws away a little, her breath warms his hide.

"Come back to me at the end of this," he whispers into that tiny, hallowed space.

She nods and leans in to press her brow to his. "You too, Primarch. You too." After a second, she swallows, thick and hard and pulls away, passing him his gloves even as she turns toward the door. After pulling her own back on, she steps aside, eyes still averted as she waits for him to open the door.

He reefs the stubborn, broken portal open, but then, just inside the door, he reaches out, snagging her hand. Panic wraps a clawed fist around his throat. They've reached the end, but he isn't ready. He's not ready to face a galaxy without her, or to leave her … not when they should be beginning. Time freezes for a scant second that he clutches in a greedy, clammy grip. Still facing the door, Shepard squeezes his talons, waiting for him. Even when the ice begins to thaw, his hand responds stiff and rusted as he insists it let her go.

She steps across the threshold, and the war rushes back in with enough force to stagger him. Still, there's nothing to do but move forward and hope for the best, and so he does. He might be in love, but he's turian and a general … and the primarch. His people are counting on him to be the _torin_ who leads them through the war triumphant.

He refuses to let them down.

In the main room, Shepard strides over to Vakarian, back straight, shoulders set. They embrace, speaking brow to brow; friends bonded by a love as strong as any lifelong marriage. Victus watches, humbled by it … by Vakarian's bravery. The _torin_ has remained by her side through every insane risk, through suicide missions and coups, unflinching even as they say what could be their last farewell.

As he watches them, Victus wishes that he possessed the freedom to run into the fire at her six … to throw himself between her and every danger. Spirits, how _has_ Vakarian done it all these cycles? In the far corner of the room, Shepard kisses her best friend, hugs him for long seconds, and then pulls away, turning to meet Victus's eyes across the room. A smile touches her lips, poignant and sweet with regret, making the pads of his talons yearn to brush along the soft skin just one more time.

Too late. She strides to the door and through, leading the way to Anderson's briefing.

* * *

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

 **Golus** \- Slang for male genitalia

 **Kresat frasacti(s)** \- Literal: herd spooker(s). Vernacular: crazy bastard(s)

 **Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

Exhausted, Victus hunkers down behind a balcony railing, praying that they've given the Reaper husks the slip long enough to rest for a couple of minutes. Behind him, a ragged, multi-species company sits sprawled here and there, nursing wounds or gulping down bottles of water. Thank the spirits he made everyone double up on their rations. They'd have been dead in the water two hours ago without the extra food and water.

"Boss?" Ralayis hurries into the room, bent low to stay in cover, her voice barely louder than a breath. "There's another large wave of husks coming." She glances behind her and waves, ushering in a dozen or so humans, asari, and krogan. "And I found some more stragglers."

He nods, but doesn't bother to reply. So far, they've gathered hundreds of stragglers, the soldiers all left to fend for themselves as their units were wiped out. "Farm them out," he orders, too weary to be more specific. He feels as though he's been fighting for days rather than hours, and still there's no word from Shepard. The only place she can be is at the front of the wave trying to break through the Reaper lines and reach the beam. Has she made it to the Citadel?

"God. They're all gone," a voice cries out over their comms. It stinks so badly of horror and defeat that he nearly commands his people to mute the mission channel. They don't need some bastard's hysteria poisoning their resolve. They've fought with too much courage for that.

Numb and cold … so damned cold … Victus's talons lift to open the channel, to demand that Shepard answer. Why does no one know what's going on? All gone? No. They can't be all gone. Vakarian and Vega would never leave Shepard, and she wouldn't stop—not even to die—until she finished the mission.

A bomb builds to detonation in his chest. There's no way she's dead. He'd know. He'd know. His talons almost make it to his comms, but then a Brute leaps over the balcony railing, throwing him back. Scrambling, firing with one hand, he barely rolls out of the way of the thing's charge. Hands grab his armour, yanking him out of the way before helping him onto his feet.

"You okay?" Terion's face presses into his, bronze eyes searching. "Did it hit you?"

"I'm fine," he replies, opening fire, Shepard's Mattock tireless, deadly, and efficient in his talons. The brute pays them no attention, the construct focuses on a squad further in.

"We need to regroup," the voice on the radio calls, still frantic enough that Victus wishes someone would slap him. "Pull back to the buildings."

Sorrow and frustration smolder into rage, a tightly wound knot of paper shoved in behind his keel, the edges burning with a fierce, red glow. But they're already at the fucking buildings, fighting to keep the horde off the runners' backs. Where are they supposed to go? Where is Shepard?

"Hammer's wiped out!" a female yells over the channel. At least she manages to keep her tone restrained and professional. "All forces retreat."

"To where?" He bellows the demand into the black sky of boiling clouds and streaking fire. Without someone on the Citadel, they might as well just throw themselves into the fire until their heat sinks are spent and the _praelas_ ride in to carry them all onward. What is the point of retreating?

The fire reaches the end of his fuse and the bomb goes off. He's surprised when only a scream flies from him rather than shards of rib and keel. "Shepard!"

"Sir? They're coming up the wall." Terion's report tears him from ….

Victus stumbles, spinning around, rifle searching for the origin of the guttural, nightmarish roars. Husks pour into the room and for a half hour, his mind is blessedly focused on killing before being killed.

"Holy shit," Hackett says over the open channel, shattering the almost zen rhythm of battle. "She did it. This is Admiral Hackett. We've got reports that Shepard made it to the Citadel. We need to give her time to get those arms open. All fleets, protect the Crucible at all costs."

Joy and a cocky sort of triumph floods through him, reenergizing lagging muscles and aching bones. Nothing Victus does matters to Shepard so many kilometres above the city. At least, nothing but staying alive. "Push forward. Come on!" he hollers. "We're just about there. We've just got to hold on for—" A Banshee appears in the interior door, wreathed in blue like a nightmare straight out of _buratrum_. She fixes her sights on him.

"Warp, Reave, Concussive shot … bring that bitch's barriers down!" He vaults over a low counter. Their last stand appears to be taking place in a bakery. He isn't sure if that constitutes irony of any sort, but maybe … if the gas line isn't ruptured … maybe. "Platoons Alpha and Bravo, focus on keeping the husks back. Charlie, the Banshee." He spins and dives behind the ovens, talons scrabbling, feeling along the narrow gap. Nothing.

"Come on! Come on," he mutters under his breath. "It's got to be here." A victorious cry greets the painful impact of talon on reticulated metal hose. Yanking with all his strength, he pulls out his long shot … and it is a long shot. Fires burn all along the street, the city's power grid fractured into tiny shards. Still, gas ovens are a rarity, which might well mean a tank rather than feeder lines from below the streets. Throwing himself backwards, he tears the hose loose, dragging it out of the floor.

He smells gas. Spirits, maybe his luck is holding. Dragging the hose out into the room, he makes it four metres before hitting the end. Close enough. "Fire in the hole!" He sparks it. Nothing. Damn. "Come on, you _golus_!" Sparks again, this time flame billows all around him, singing his plates. When the cloud of gas burns, a single gout erupts, shooting out under pressure. Banshee, husks … the whole world burns, light piercing the endless gloom of dust and smoke. He laughs as he incinerates the enemy, his people retreating out of the room, just in case the _kresat frasacti_ leading them blows everything into the heavens.

"Move to the next building." Maniacal laughter rumbles from his chest as he pours flames out toward the balcony. "Alpha on point. Bravo take the wounded. Charlie cover the rear." His people move, obedient without thought or complaint. When they're clear, he wedges the hose between the counter and the computer, then races after them. They run, fighting their way along nearly half a block of street and then up another staircase to the fourth floor, bunkering down in an apartment with a balcony that offers them an excellent line of sight to cover units on the ground.

Then Hackett's voice comes through on the comms. "This is it, everyone, the arms are opening."

Grinning at the hoots and hollers from the weary and injured, Victus closes his eyes for a moment, his love's face appearing behind his eyelids. He knows with a certainty rooted in concrete that Jane has come through for them all up there. He just knows. She'll save them all.

"Ten seconds to contact." The cheering stops, the soldiers … the entire planet holding its breath, waiting for Hackett's next words. "That's it. The Crucible is docked." No one releases the breath.

But then, the enemy moves in, and the battle resumes, almost like waking from a dream. Nothing happened. Victus opens fire on a wave of the enemy. The hero made it to the Citadel, the weapon took its place, and then … nothing. An impossible weight of confusion and sorrow presses down on him. He knows he's not the only one who feels it. What happened? His eyes look up at the Citadel as if he'll find some answer at the end of that beam. Has something happened to Shepard?

"Shepard? Commander?" Hackett again, his tone expressing everything Victus is feeling.

"I … what do you need me to do?" Shepard's voice comes through weak, laced with grunts of pain so heavy that they steal the air from Victus's lungs. His eyes return to that star at the end of the beam, and he reaches out, even knowing she'll never feel the love and hope he's sending her.

"Nothing's happening. The Crucible's not firing. It's got to be something on your end."

"Of course it is," he yells into the darkness. Every burden, every responsibility … why do they all end up piled on her shoulders?

"Commander Shepard?" Hackett presses, and while Victus understands why, and would do so in the other man's place, it fills him with fury.

"Just let her rest!" Tears pool above his cheekbones, as he hears her struggling. He looks to his people, and sees them all tense, krogan, turian, asari, human, and even geth straining as one, reaching out as if somehow they can help her push through. Oh, how he loves them.

"I can't see …," she says, her voice broken … shattered with pain that stabs into him like a million shards of glass even as her courage reinforces his spine with layers of steel and tungsten. "I don't know ho—" The sentence ends in a soft cry and a thump.

"Commander!" Hackett sounds as if he's going to leap through the radio to do it himself.

"Incoming!" Ralayis calls from the far end of the balcony. "They've found us, Primarch."

"Alpha … Charlie, take up the line," he shouts over the din of war and growing denial. "Bravo, fall back. Secure the wounded. Keep heat sinks coming as long as you can." He checks the sink in his rifle. "The fight goes on, people. Let's buy them the time they need." Despite exhaustion allowing the pain of burned plates and hide to seep through, Victus remains on the line, holding a hand out and shouting for heat sinks when he runs out. Still the enemy comes for them, a flood that washes over them in ever increasing waves … Shepard's dream.

Spirits … it's Shepard's dream. And then, just like that, it's all right, the whole puzzle fitting into place and making sense. He's inside the house. It's safe inside the house.

A bright flash draws his attention to the Citadel. Red light boils at the center of the ring for five seconds before Hackett's voice returns.

"All fleets! The Crucible is armed. Disengage and head to the rendezvous point!"

She's done it! Shepard has bought the galaxy a future. Nothing will be easy, but it will go on. He's certain that his heart burns brighter than the fire at the heart of the Crucible, the love he felt before undergoing fusion, the start of an all new sun trapped within the imperfect prison of his chest. Dear spirits, all he asks is that wherever they end up, they end up together.

Hackett breaks through Victus's prayer. "I repeat, disengage and get the hell out of here."

And then another voice reaches out over the mission channel, the frequency remaining open wherever Shepard is.

"Adrien?" Shepard's voice sounds so small and alone. Pain bleeds through her voice, and she's so far from where she should be, held tight within his arms. "Adrien," she repeats, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm coming back." Explosions roar over the open channel, the fury of them tearing him up out of his cover. His eyes turn toward that growing blossom of gold and red in the heavens. He should have followed her, duty be damned. Of course, he never would: duty came first, always and for both of them, but now she's alone and hurt … and last night he promised her he'd never let her be alone.

And still her voice reaches down to him, to comfort him. "If I don't make it back … well, you know, right? You know." And he does … he knows, her love burning along his veins, all that keeps him moving. Just as Terion said that night in the hotel room, he's known how she felt since Tar's _mallupean_. She sighs. "It's okay, it really is. I've earned a rest. Hell, I need a rest. Thank you for loving me. Live well, _caris_."

His talons leap to his aural canal, opening the channel, and he prays that she can hear him. To hell with the fact that so can everyone else. His voice is lost in the cacophony of battle as he calls, "Jane. I'm coming. Do you hear me, _caris_? I'm coming for—"

He stares up, a brief break in the clouds of ash and smoke revealing the Citadel at the end of the bright, blue-white beam. For a moment, the entire universe holds its breath, the air inside Victus's lungs vanishing into the vacuum that separates him from Shepard. Mind racing, he struggles to lift himself above the fear … the frantic need to act … to do something … anything … that her message has caused. She doesn't need him to scream and pound his keel, she needs him to stay cool and calm … to figure out how to get to her. He needs to get to her.

The first hint of a plan is taking hold when a flash of blinding red light explodes from the Citadel, searing the open star of its form onto his retinas. In the breathless seconds following, a massive spherical wave of energy bursts outward, racing toward Earth.

He spins toward his troops, his overwhelmed eyes able to see nothing but a wash of green against the darkness. "Everyone down!" He throws himself behind the balcony railing. It impacts, and he swears he can feel the entire planet tremble as the wildfire spreads, a massive conflagration that paradoxically spares almost everything in its path.

A Reaper lands in the street outside, tearing his eyes from the Citadel, the station lost in the fireworks. The destroyer turns toward the scattered rifle fire from the buildings along the street: toward him … and Terion … and all the brave souls trying to pull it down. It primes its main weapon, but before it can fire, that wall of crimson flame sweeps over it. Red arcs of lightning sear along the monster's shell. It writhes for long moments—he hopes the Reapers suffer in those last seconds—and then it topples. They all topple, giant forms staggering and crashing to the ground. Dead.

The wall of fire washes over the building, but it's cool against his skin, just light and tempest, no burn. When it passes, only drifting shoals of ash remain where husks and brutes once stood. In a moment, it's over. They've won.

Reaching up, he grips the railing in shaking talons, hauling himself up onto equally trembling legs to look out over the city. At first, nothing moves. Where, moments before, soldiers raced through the streets, rifles and shotguns bellowing, silence and stillness reign. The city lies beneath the dark, rolling sky, wounded to the point of death. Then, slowly, painfully, it gasps, its heart taking a single beat. Bodies begin to trickle out of buildings to gather in the streets, shock warming into a slow cheer that grows as disbelief burns away.

"Sir?" Ralayis stumbles out of the ruined building, a sheet of blue pouring down the side of her head. "Primarch Victus?" She leans against the railing at his side. "It's over? Commander Shepard did it."

"She did." Victus turns still-blind eyes toward the Citadel, his heart going nova in his chest before collapsing into a singularity. The shattered tile floor cracks against Victus's knees before he realizes that they've given out. Not that it matters. It's over. It's all over. His hands fall onto his thighs, numb and limp.

He promised her she'd never be alone, and she died up there alone and in pain. If the universe required her sacrifice … . The thought vanished, her last words washing it from his head.

" _If I don't make it back … well, you know, right? You know."_

"Sir? Are you injured?" Ralayis crouches next to him, her question nonsensical or ironic considering the amount of blood pouring over her hide and plates. He stares into her eyes, unsure how to answer her. Is he injured? He's too numb to tell. Once again his eyes look up, but the clouds have moved in, blocking the Citadel from sight. Still, he can see her, he's right there beside her.

"Jane."

* * *

(A-N: So, here is the end of the first act. I'll be continuing the story over a couple of more acts as Victus recovers from the war. Chapter 10 will be a little different thanks to a reader suggestion that sparked inspiration ... thanks for that. You'll know who you are when you read it in a few days. Thanks so much for reading, and I would love to hear from you. I've just had some of the kindest feedback on this story, so thank you for that. :D You're all gorgeous. See you in a few days for a brief intermission chapter.)


	10. Chapter Ten -- Frozen in the Dragon's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time stops. The pain doesn't as the flames burst toward her, a hungry dragon licking her skin, tasting her in the moments before she's consumed, but it's all right. She can live with the pain for a little while longer if it means telling him goodbye.
> 
> And it's so very important to tell him, because ….

**Shepard**

_Thank you for loving me. Live well,_ caris _._

Time stops. The pain doesn't as the flames burst toward her, a hungry dragon licking her skin, tasting her in the moments before she's consumed, but it's all right. She can live with the pain for a little while longer if it means telling him goodbye.

And it's so very important to tell him, because ….

She can't recall what her life looked like before Menae, the fire steals all but the keenest memories. Even Saren and the Collectors … even the war fades to grey ash and drifts into space. Only moments of significance, true, shining significance remain, glowing like jewels in the light of the dragon's breath.

Her friends all flicker in that light, dew drops glistening for a second before disappearing. They're more like family, really, the beautiful misfits she's collected over the years. Spirits, how she loves them. As crazy as they drive her, they've gotten her through. They've saved the galaxy.

She hears Garrus's laughter, bright and sharp, his breath puffing like clouds in the cold as they shiver beneath space blankets, waiting for rescue beneath an avalanche on Noveria. He keeps her entertained and distracted from a crushed leg with bad turian puns … all the saddest, most groan-worthy jokes he knows.

She sees the sorrow and weariness in the bow of Archangel's spine when she finds him on Omega, his heart broken so completely that she doesn't know if it will ever mend. Then the fury that slowly cools to compassion and understanding as he stares down his scope at Sidonis.

She feels the heartache that splits her chest like dry cordwood when her best friend and dearest companion tells her that even though he loves her, he can't bear to pull down the wall of friendship … that he wouldn't survive losing her again if they became lovers. Despite the pain, she understands his fear and smiles, nodding and assuring him that they're fine. And they are … after a time.

She experiences the sense of coming home when she finds him again on Menae … alive and whole and back at her six. It's a gift she can't quite understand. What could she have ever done to deserve his friendship and loyalty?

After her parents died, she'd never thought she'd find home again, and most definitely never in a person. People came and went; they never stayed. She made sure of that, keeping everyone at arm's length. And then Garrus refused to stay where she held him … and then Adrien … .

Adrien. She glances toward Earth, just a murky shape rolling with cloud and streaked with flaming debris hurtling toward the surface. Somewhere down there, he's fighting. She knows he is. She can feel him. A weary smile whispers across her lips, and she closes her eyes, accepting the fire like a lover's arms. She's so very tired, so much of her carved away by the years of fighting to get to that end. Life flows from her, dripping in a broad river down her side, but it's all right. It's all right. The fire will burn it all away.

She knows she's done. She's done, but for that moment, she allows herself to wish for everything she dreamed about as she curled beneath her blankets, listening to Adrien's soft snore the night before. The quiet moments, stolen away from the busy-ness of life, that he spoke about—the soft touches and shared breaths and heartaches—she wants them all, but most of all, she wants them with him. Her stoic-faced, stiff-backed general. Her primarch with the keen mind and gentle heart.

For the first couple of weeks, she watches the primarch almost constantly, trying to figure him out. Part of that is trying to suss out his secrets, to figure out what he keeps hidden so close to his vest. Another part is the dichotomy of the torin, himself. Garrus has taught her that the stick-up-the-ass, hard-nosed, traditional, war nerd persona only runs so deep, and she sees that very clearly in Victus.

Then he asks for her help, and despite the general holding himself at a distance, the father's fear bleeds through every glance, every expression, every word when Tarquin's ship goes down. She feels the love hidden beneath the surface, and it reaches down inside of her, grabbing hold of something soft and longing. As angry as he makes her, she needs to get his son back to him.

And then she fails. As Tarquin falls on Tuchanka, she slaps a hurried hand over her camera, but she knows that no amount of hiding his son's death will ease Victus's pain. Adrien's pain, because, for better or for worse, that is what he is to her now. He's no longer the primarch or the general, or even the wartime ally; he's Adrien.

She needs him whole and sound and able to keep up the fight. At least that's what she tells herself as she allows their friendship to grow in the wake of Tarquin's death. Then she returns from Mahavid, turned inside out and upside down by what Leviathan has done. She plans to drink until she dislodges the memory of their soulless voices—are you familiar with the applications of tungsten—from where they've taken root in her soul.

Alongside her family.

And then he's there with his smoky voice, and calm bossiness, and his meatloaf and ice cream. He listens while she rattles on about ice cream and her family and the people on the asteroid, and he holds her. Formal, gentle but distant, he holds her and strokes her hair, then puts her to bed when she falls asleep.

The dragon roars in one drawn out note that hammers at the inside of her skull, that pain new and fresh and immediate despite the rest of the galaxy stopping. For a fraction of a second, the fire belches out toward her, hungry ... so very hungry as it welcomes her home. Oblivion. She's been there before. How many times since waking on that station has she wished for the cool and the dark? The rest. Oh, the blissful peace of it.

Not since Menae. After Aratoht, she wished for oblivion every second, but since Menae's rocky surface … not once.

She pushed back against the dragon's breath. She's not ready. As tired as she is, as worn down and scraped bare as she feels, he's out there. If she closes her eyes, it's as if he's right there, just a reaching hand away. She's spent a lot of time with her eyes closed, her hand and heart stretching out across the light years since he left his place in the war room.

She lives for his calls, craves his voice and his laughter, mourns as they become more and more rare, but the war doesn't obey the whims of her heart. Then, one day, he answers her call, and his face … he's trying to wear the brave, stoic mask, and for the rest of the galaxy, perhaps it works, but she's always seen the pain behind his eyes. When he tells her of the shattered connection to his wife and sons, she sends her gift and prays it doesn't insult the memory. It's purely selfish, wanting that piece of her with him.

When he watches over her as she sleeps in the aftermath of Sanctuary and its horrors, she knows that she's lost, perfectly, wonderfully lost. Not even Garrus has seen her cry like that. She's never trusted anyone enough to let all the masks and walls fall away. When she's at her most vulnerable, he calls her _caris_ —beloved … cherished—and guards her from her nightmares.

Does wanting what Adrien described the night before make her greedy? Because she does. She wants to feel that warm hand on the small of her back. She wants to turn to smile when he appears in the door, then join their children in splashing bubbles at him. She wants to curl up in his arms every night until she's ancient and grey.

But no, she knows she's done. Blood flows, and not just from the tear in her side. She's done, and despite her regrets, she's ready to rest. He will move on like the rest of the galaxy, discovering new life from the ashes of the old. He'll live well and renew his people, and one day, perhaps she'll feel that familiar presence in the serene dark. She's ready.

But then—

"Jane. I'm coming. Do you hear me, _caris_? I'm coming for—"

His voice snaps time back: the monster's pupil dilating in the glare of its own breath. The fires roar, knocking the pistol from her hand. No matter. It can scream all it wants, the damage is done. The Reapers and the harvests are over. Explosions throw her back, the rough-scaled tongue and serrated teeth agonizing as they tear into her flesh.

But, no! She's not done! As greedy as it makes her, she wants it all. He's down there, fighting for her. He's coming for her, and damn it, she's not done, not if she can help it. She flings herself into the black, falling away from the fires, and she hopes that wherever she lands, he finds her.

"Please, Adrien, find me."

* * *

(A-N: Just a short intermission chapter from Jane's POV as suggested/requested. Back to Adrien next chapter. Thanks so much for your support. It is so much appreciated. Kim)


	11. Chapter Eleven -- The Unbearable In-Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turians don't hug. Issues with keels and armour, and proper social etiquette all stand in the way, but behind that railing on that dark street, Victus's pahir pulls him in and hugs him tight. Strong arms wrap around him, one stroking the back of his neck as he rests his brow on Terion's shoulder.
> 
> "We'll go after her, Pari," his pahir says, low but resolute. "As soon as we get everyone back to base, we'll look for her."

 

 **Pahir** \- Son

 **Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

 **Caris -** Beloved, precious, cherished

"Jane." Victus stares up at the spot in the clouds where the Citadel must remain. He feels her there, he's sure of it. A tether ties him to her, binding them together more tightly than the strongest cable. She's alive. She's hurt beyond imagining, but she's alive.

" _If I don't make it back … well, you know, right? You know."_

" _Pari_?" Terion's call is soft, but carries enough to be heard over the words repeating on an endless loop in his head and the celebration going on below.

Turians don't hug. Issues with keels and armour, and proper social etiquette all stand in the way, but behind that railing on that dark street, Victus's _pahir_ pulls him in and hugs him tight. Strong arms wrap around him, one stroking the back of his neck as he rests his brow on Terion's shoulder.

"We'll go after her, _Pari,_ " his _pahir_ says, low but resolute. "As soon as we get everyone back to base, we'll look for her."

" _Jane. I'm coming. Do you hear me, caris? I'm coming for—"_

Those words spur him into action, and he pats his _pahir's_ back. "Yes, let's get the wounded seen to." He pulls back and holds out a hand, levering himself to his feet when Terion's talons grip his. He presses his palm to his pahir's cheek and repeats, "We'll get our wounded looked after. We won. She saved us."

Terion's mandibles flick hard. "She's amazing." He cups the back of Victus's neck. "I take it from her message that you told her." When Victus nods, his _pahir_ grins and nods toward the company. "Then we'd better hurry and get ourselves up there, searching. Come on, you can tell me all about it on the way back."

Telling Terion about the past few weeks and his growing relationship with Shepard … Jane ... helps keep her close so that Victus manages focus and work instead of losing himself in desperate panic. Shepard's life slips away, each moment ticking past in time with the pulse echoing inside his skull. He clamps his jaw until his teeth grind together: millstones turning terror into dust … a sort of mortar that helps hold him together.

He takes long, shaking breaths and sends scouts out into the street to find functional transportation for their wounded. He fists his talons over and over to keep blood flowing to them when they go numb, and he cracks his spine as he digs into applying his first aid skills once again. Scan, medigel, packing, bandaging, and painkillers … he becomes an expert on the treatment of all the different races as he works. So many wounded, but so many still alive because of Jane … his Jane.

_It's okay, it really is. I've earned a rest._

Tick. Tick. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.

 _No! I'm coming for you,_ caris. _Hold on._

Swallowing bile and blood, he tends even those whose wounds tear him open inside, knowing that the best anyone can do for them is ease their suffering and hold their hand.

Because he believes in Shepard's miraculous survival on the Crucible, he absolutely must believe that his people are capable of surviving against lesser odds. So, he cajoles and coaxes and keeps them talking, telling him about their families or about what they intend to do now the war is over.

They break his heart, smashing the floundering organ into smaller pieces. Sometimes it's with the beauty of their love, sometimes with the emptiness of their stare as they explain they have nothing left, and sometimes as they cling to his hand and drift away. A raw, poisoned part of him—a deep, dark tumour nestled in behind his heart—envies the dead their reunion with loved ones stolen away. If Jane is dead, he can look forward to no such release. Duty will tie him to life without her.

Once green blood ceases flooding from a grievous neck wound, Victus grinds his teeth together and splotches yellow marker dye on the head of the unconscious salarian to mark him alpha priority for evac.

"So, Shepard sent you her rifle? Her very own, personal rifle?" Terion calls. Victus's last remaining bright spot if Jane is dead—and he shines so very brightly—remains by his side the entire time. "You know what it means when a woman gives you her rifle, don't you, Primarch?" He chugs Victus on the shoulder as he passes by. "And you fought with it? Yeah, you're as good as bond-mates now."

The tip of one talon skates along the rifle's stock, then yanks back. "Oh, spirits, I shouldn't have done that." Wiping his hand on the chest of his armour, he looks to his audience. "I feel like I just walked in on you two making out or something." He crouches next to an asari, giving her a broad wink as he ties a pressure bandage over a gash in her thigh. "Oh … damn … I just … I mean … do you two kiss?"

Victus forces a grin and shrugs, keeping the mystery. "Maybe."

"Dear spirits." Terion glances his way, a question in the angle of his brow plates and the spread of his mandibles. A warm, gentle flare goes off in Victus's chest, and he nods. He doesn't mind providing a distraction. Terion chuffs then continues, "Isn't it disgusting? I mean … sharing spit, and … tongues touching .. and agh!" He makes a lot of gagging noises, which gets their patients chuckling. In the wake of his _pahir_ demolishing that wall, his people move in, teasing him about being Commander Shepard's boyfriend.

"You're all just jealous," Victus counters, cocking his head and feigning indignation at their jokes. "However, I'm a big enough _torin_ to let it go." A magnanimous hand wave emphasizes his declaration.

The man whose gut wound Victus is packing, chuckles weakly and nods his head. Blue eyes close beneath a brow plastered with sweat-slicked, tawny hair. "Aye, Primarch, that might just be." He slides down the wall a little further. "I wouldn't mind kissing the commander; she's an attractive woman. I love a fiery redhead."

Victus laughs, brow plates diving into a frown, a heavy mandible flick accompanying the shake of his head. "No, I meant that I can understand you all being jealous of her. I'm quite the catch." He winks. "And a very good kisser, I'll have you know."

 _Thank you for loving me._ _Live well, caris._

"Sir?" Ralayis hollers from the street, interrupting the good-natured heckling and abuse the others throw his way. "We've got two working shuttles down here, and Gerrill thinks he may have found another. He's working on it."

"Excellent!" He motions for a stretcher. "Let's get the alpha priorities on their way." Movement drives the worry from his mind, and if he looks toward the Citadel now and again, the arms still invisible behind the clouds, he's just … checking in.

* * *

 **Targismar** \- The most vile curse in the turian language. Has its origins in turian prehistoric rituals involving the disgracing and execution of enemies. The shortened **Targis** is used most often.

"I'm sorry, Primarch, all available shuttles are being used in rescue operations all over the city." The Alliance guards at the FOB block the path to the shuttles Victus's people salvaged, their Avengers held far too menacingly across their chests. "We have no authorization to release a shuttle in the absence of a commanding officer."

After more than an hour of frustration and denial, Victus's vision washes blue, his head and heart pounding so hard that he feels lightheaded, the dizziness setting him weaving on trembling legs. He buttresses a hand against the wall when his muscles threaten to dump him on the ground. "I brought in four of those shuttles," Victus insists. "Shepard is up there and wounded. She risked herself to save us all. We need to go looking for her."

The bigger of the two Marines steps forward, just about matching Victus's height when she puffs herself up. "Thank you for the shuttles, Primarch. I'm sure if Commander Shepard survived that explosion, she'd want us to save several shuttle loads of wounded rather than wasting time and precious resources searching for one woman."

Victus lunges at the wall of human muscle, his talons aching to draw blood, to make the woman feel something other than her passionless ... self-righteous … superiority and apathy. "One woman who's the only reason you still draw breath!"

Terion's hand on his shoulder eases Victus back. _Targismar!_ The primarch can't argue with their reasoning—Shepard would insist on everyone else being saved first—but _tarc_ , he's got to get up there.

"Come on, Primarch, we'll find another way," his _pahir_ says, glaring at the guards.

"The entire fucking Citadel is on fire," the smaller guard says, "and with its shields down, it's being pelted by chunks of ships. We've got guards on the base of the beam. If you try to use it to get up there, you'll be arrested." He lets out a slow sigh, the sorrow and resignation echoing through it easing Victus's rage enough that he pulls his talons from the flesh at the heels of his hands. "Look, sir, I get it. I heard that message just like everyone else, and if she was my woman, I'd be going just as crazy trying to get to her, but it's a suicide mission right now."

"And we can't just let the turian primarch kill himself on our watch!" the larger guard insists. "Go see a doctor. As soon as Admiral Hackett returns, he'll decide what happens."

Reaching out, the male pulls his larger counterpart back. "It's just not possible right now." He glances at his partner. "Orkalov is right. Go see a doctor, you're bleeding like a fuckin' sieve, and get some sleep. Admiral Hackett should be back within a couple of days … ." A hand jumps up to halt Victus's outburst before the primarch can even yank it out of the gelid mire in his gut. "I know, it seems like forever, but I'll see if I can get you seats on a SAR shuttle combing that area come morning."

A fury colder than anything he's ever felt begins to burn, but Victus allows Terion to lead him away. They'll find a way to the Citadel, and maybe the beam is the best way to get there. It would take him to the same position Shepard landed. Surely they could find their way from there. Hope warms the fury, setting it to simmer.

"Come on, we should run you through the med tent." Terion leads him that way. "But then we can sneak out with the ground teams."

* * *

"Sorry about this, Primarch Victus," the guard says seven hours later as he stands in the prefab's door, "but we warned you." He steps back and locks down the controls. "Someone will be by in a few minutes with food, and I'll let Admiral Hackett know what's going on as soon as he checks in."

The closing door cuts Victus in half more surely than a guillotine blade, and for a moment, all he can do is gasp and search for the thread of connection tying him to Shepard. He closes his eyes, reaching out with trembling, desperate fingers. "Come on, Jane," he whispers, but he can't find it. The light … the thread that he's felt connecting them is gone, leaving the inside of him hollow and dark.

No. It can't be possible. She can't be dead. She knows that he's coming for her. Pouring steel into his hollowed out center, he replaces the light with resolve.

Resigned to captivity for the moment, he turns to look over their rooms. It's a small family unit with large shuttered front windows. A possible escape route? He strides over, footsteps light so as to avoid alerting any guards. Arresting and locking up the primarch of the Turian Empire— _tarc_ , that's what he is until the colonial governments are rebuilt—it's the basis for an interspecies incident. Hackett would never allow it, in fact, Victus is certain Hackett will have their heads. Imagining the dressing down the guards receive helps ease the press of walls and time. At least, it does until he looks out between the shutter slats to see three guards along that wall.

 _Tarc_ , shouldn't they be out looking for survivors rather than keeping him held prisoner? Who do they think they are? A hand startles him, and he spins, reflex swinging his hand around only to stop short before it connects with Terion's face.

Commander Victus doesn't flinch away but catches his _pari's_ hand in his. "We'll be out of here in a day at most, _Pari._ " He pulls Victus into a struggling hug, the primarch making himself all spikes and hard edges.

"I don't want to be comforted, Terion," he says, subvocals growling as he tears loose of the embrace. "I want to get to her." He paces to the door and back. "She's up there, wounded … dying, and they've got five people guarding this prefab. They've taken the primarch of the Turian Empire prisoner, and why?" His pacing speeds up, boots slamming across the floor and back. "We contributed equal resources to this fight, and because I want to go search for the woman who saved us all, they lock me up and claim it's to protect me?"

As Terion opens his mouth to speak, banging on the door cuts him off. "Let me get it," he says, stopping Victus with a hand on his shoulder. "The last thing we need is another confrontation." When Victus gives him a rusted nod and eases back, Terion moves to the door.

Victus remains rooted, stubborn rage and fear hobbling him and staking him to the ground. What now? All the turians who just fought like hell for Earth as well as their own people … all the krogan and quarians are being arrested as well? It's all madness. He should be fucking well out there doing something.

"May I speak to the primarch, please?" Victus recognizes the voice as the shorter, slightly more reasonable guard.

Hope sparks again, but he crushes it beneath his heel. He's got to stop setting himself up for disappointment. When Terion turns for Victus's answer, he nods again, every vertebrae in his spine stiff to the point of crunching as they move.

Terion steps aside, giving the Alliance soldier barely enough room to squeeze past, but he does and salutes Victus, the bladed-hand to the brow salute of the Alliance. "I've arranged two seats on the SAR shuttles headed to the Citadel as soon as we get the all-clear, sir." He swallows, the lump at the front of his throat bobbing. "We're still waiting for a senior officer to arrive back from the field." Another hard swallow. "So far, we haven't even had a captain come back."

Victus's mandibles drop. He takes a long, slow breath to rein in his temper. "I'm not just the turian primarch; I'm a general." Holding up his arms to indicate his cage, he shakes his head. "What am I doing in here when you have no one out there coordinating the SAR efforts?"

The man frowns, his brow furrowing into deep ridges. "We were trying to protect you, Primarch." He winces a little. "If we let you go up there and you get yourself killed, it could cause a major diplomatic incident."

Victus laughs, hard and cold. "You're headed for one now." Striding over to the soldier, he grips the man by the shoulders. "Take me to the command center. Let's get things organized. First thing … I need a team of engineers willing to head up to the Citadel and get the shields back up."

When the human hesitates, the primarch steps into the man's space, towering over him with every gram of authority that he can muster. "The sooner we get started, the more lives we'll save."

He works for hours, turning the city into a search grid, sending their hundred or so shuttles and APCs out to find and bring back the wounded. Personnel pour into the FOB in numbers far greater than Victus could have imagined, combined companies very much like the one he'd led through the long hours of the night. As racial/planetary units lost members and picked up stragglers, units began to form that forged aliens into brothers and sisters.

It sparks his imagination, an idea beginning to form in the back of his mind, as the busy work keeps him engaged, his thoughts only partially on Jane. The faster he brings people in, the faster he can get to the Citadel. He has five repair teams already up there working on reestablishing the shields. The air shell remains intact, although it may also have been repaired and reactivated by the keepers. The engineers report that the small guardians of the Citadel are out in massive numbers, literally swarming the ruined structure.

"Where's the primarch?" a familiar voice bellows. "I was told that spike-covered pyjak was in here."

Victus straightens, his back complaining as he pushes up off the holo-projector that displays the city across its surface. "Wrex?" He waves to the guards and leans into the table, exhaustion and relief turning his muscles into sponge.

The krogan laughs, low and deep, as he leads his young companion into the room. "I knew you were too ornery to die out there." He slaps the primarch on the back, nearly knocking him to the floor. "I heard you got yourself arrested trying to get to Shepard." Turning back to the door, the krogan clan chief waves. "Took me a bit, but I found some people willing to help."

A human steps into the doorway, Victus recognizing him instantly as the _Normandy's_ shuttle pilot. The man salutes, a turian salute rather than an Alliance one. "Primarch. Lt. Steve Cortez reporting, sir. I need to find my captain." He hitches a thumb over his shoulder. "Took me a bit to get the repairs done, but my shuttle is ready when you are, sir."

Standing just behind him, a woman with long, black hair watches him through wary, but restless eyes, the faint blue of a barrier glowing around her. Next to the woman, another lounges against the door frame … the tattoo'd biotic … the teacher from Grissom Academy.

"Well?" the young woman with the tattoos says. "Are we getting our asses up there or what?"

A smile spreads across his face, so wide that his mandibles ache, and he slaps Wrex on the back. "Yes," he says, " just let me get my assistant set up here, and we'll go."

* * *

His first view of the Citadel hits him in the gut so hard that it knocks the wind out of him, and his hope flounders, his heart forgetting how to beat for long moments. It's just pieces held together with threads. While on the _Normandy,_ the crew had eaten something called Shredded Wheat, and what he saw reminded him of nothing more than one of those biscuits broken into pieces.

Fires burn everywhere, small ones nursed by broken fuel lines, and larger ones that cover entire blocks. All of them belch acrid, deep-black smoke into the small amount of air clinging to the arms. The presidium lies in absolute shambles, the destruction so complete that his hope seems a small lie made from shards of eggshell glued together with spit.

They find Admiral Anderson's body on a platform at the base of the Crucible that first day. Upon returning to the shuttle, they proceed to another, higher platform. What Victus sees there stops his heart, crushing his heart beneath a maze of rubble ... of twisted and broken metal nearly a kilometre high. An orbit of debris hangs in a thick sphere around the collapsed section of the construct, the pieces travelling outward from the blast, but slowing thanks to the Citadel's restored gravity. It's a hazardous place to search, but they comb through debris until they're collapsing from exhaustion.

"It's going to take ships, mass effect fields, and massive electromagnets to clear this away," Wrex says, gesturing to the mountain. "We can't risk digging into it much, just in case we bring it down on ourselves and Shepard."

Victus nods. "But we can map it out, mark it … prepare it for demolition once the fleets return. And we can keep searching the surrounding area." He rests against a large chunk of polycrete. "We need to be ready."

Wrex grunts, his crimson stare saying how slim he thinks Shepard's odds are, but instead of voicing his doubts, he says, "We'll launch probes into the debris field to run scans, looking for life signs." Massive head jerking toward where the shuttle waits, he grunts again, almost a sigh. "Come on, I need food and sleep before I fall down."

Victus opens his mouth to argue, but he can't. He's also moments from collapse, and he won't do Jane any good lying in the med tents. "Yeah, come on. The probes will be a few hours coming up with relevant data, anyway."

 _Thank you for loving me._ _Live well, caris._

"Not without you," he whispers, even though it's a lie. He has little choice but to live on and make sure his people recover from the Reapers' devastation.

Still, if he doesn't find her … living well might just be asking too much.

* * *

 **Ungentira** \- A large warm blooded, cat-like predator native to the high mountains of Palaven. It is neither mammal or reptile, but has aspects of both, featuring a heavy, plated hide along its back, and a rich, luxurious pelt along their underside. They are ferocious predators, frequently taking on prey three or four times their size, which is approximately the same as a labrador retriever.

Every day that passes that first week is agony. Endless, fucking agony that never eases, not for a second. By day, he searches the rubble of the Citadel, pulling survivors from the devastation. He finds a handful of people each day, but not her. Never her. By night, he stalks the halls and streets of the makeshift Alliance base, a captive _ungentira_ pacing its cage.

His subordinates—which amounts to everyone on the base at this point—don't talk to him unless they absolutely need his approval or suggestions. No one dares talk back to him the way the two guards did that first dawn. He eats when someone shoves something into his hand. Sleep … he chuffs … sleep is an elusive bastard that taunts him the entire day just to disappear at night. When he closes his eyes, all he can hear are Shepard's last words.

" _Adrien, I'm so sorry, but I don't think I'm coming back from this one. If I don't … well, you know, right? You know."_

"Sir? Fleet General Commodus has scheduled a QEC call at 0900," Ralayis says, her voice startling him when she calls from her desk in the corner of his quarters.

He doesn't look back at her, staring out across the FOB, the place starting to shine under his command, organized and beginning to rebuild. "Too late. I'll be on the Citadel with the first shuttle. I don't care if it's the middle of his sleep shift, I'll be waiting to hear from him at 0400 local time." He slams the heels of his hands down on his balcony railing, glancing toward Ralayis when she jumps, her chair legs squeaking across the tile.

" _Adrien, I'm so sorry, but I don't think I'm coming back—"_

He looks back out into the night, focusing on the brilliant beacon of the beam. Jane's voice haunts him with the amount of pain and regret that bled through her words. It taunts him with a week of failed searches and the impossibility of the area where she's most likely to be. The ruins of the Crucible require ships to help lift them away, and none have returned. They haven't heard from Hackett or from the _Normandy_.

All they can do is wait, and every second that waiting wears him more and more threadbare.

_It's okay, it really is. I've earned a rest._

He slams his hands down on the railing again. If she needed to die to set the scales even, she certainly hadn't deserved to die in pain and alone.

"Primarch?"

He waves an impatient hand at the hovering youngster and draws in a long breath of smoke and ash. "Is there anything else to deal with tonight?"

"No, sir. When do you want me to return?" So much empathy, maybe even pity, wavers through her voice that it is all he can do not to scream at her to take her sad eyes somewhere else and leave them there. Heart lying strewn amidst the rubble of the Citadel or not, he remains the primarch.

He _remains_ the primarch.

"Meet me in the comm center at 0350." He stares out across the ruins of London until he hears the door shut behind her, then turns toward the back room and his bed. Lying down on top of the sheets, still fully clothed, he piles the pillows under his fringe and stares up at the ceiling without seeing it. All he can see is the darkness of that back room in the FOB, the brilliant green of her eyes staring into his. Her mouth bows in a gentle smile … spirits … a loving smile. And then those lips are pressed to his mouth, soft and moist.

His heart pounds as hard as it did in that moment, his hands still full of her solid warmth as her mouth moves over his, teaching him so very much, the least of which is how to kiss. Her tongue flicks at the upper plate of his mouth, his darting out to meet it, the gesture foreign, but damn if he doesn't pull her in, lifting her into arms that effortlessly support her, passion and longing flaring in his gut like the sparkling fires that sear the dark skies.

"No," he says to the dark, the single word a sharp bark of sound and fury.

"No."

The second one comes out softer … a plea. It has been a week, but it's still far too early to give up on her. Her armour would keep her alive even past what the tech inside her body could manage. He won't mourn … he can't mourn until her body lies in his arms, and he sees for himself that she's dead. Until then, hope has to guide him. It must guide him.

_If I don't … well, you know, right? You know._

She didn't deserve to die alone, afraid, and in pain.

Furious at his traitorous mind, he swallows the acid that burns up his throat and flips onto his side, resettling his pillows. What remains of his fleet steers its way home, his orders to Commodus clear: get them home before they starve. His people still on Earth are fine for the time being. They've found shelters on the Citadel that held through the Reaper invasion and the Crucible. The dextro food supplies safely hidden within remain plentiful enough to last as long as the bulk of them started home within the next half year.

He merely waits for the human and quarian fleets to return so that they can begin digging at the Crucible ruins. Over the week his team has mapped them fairly well, marking the wreckage according to the order in which it needs to be removed to avoid disaster. They've tunneled away at the small stuff in hopes of finding Shepard protected in a shelter between twisted girders and struts.

He drifts off at last, his sleep restless and filled with dreams of searching long, labyrinthine corridors, following the sound of Shepard's voice without ever finding her.

* * *

( **A-N:** And Adrien returns. He's one frustrated dude. Thanks as always for the love you've shown for this story. It makes me crazy happy to know that people are enjoying the story. Hugs to all those who like hugs. See you next week.)


	12. Chapter Twelve -- Prayers both heeded and not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vakarian pushes in next to the admiral before either can say anything further. There's no smile of greeting from the other torin, no hint of relief, just dread and a frantic sort of hair-trigger distress. "What about Shepard?" he asks, his voice taut, subvocals flat. "Why isn't she there? Is she all right?"

 

**Amarceru** \- the bitter, mud-like tea popular with turians. Popular with quarians but much more dilute.

**Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

**Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

**Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

**Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

**Pahir** \- Son

**Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form Pari equivalent to dad)

* * *

"Put him through," Victus orders even as he runs through the door, Terion right on his spurs. He steps up to the QEC console and nods to the omega shift comm chief. Finally, word from the _Normandy_. It might be 0300, but he could have been dragged out of bed for only one piece of better news.

"Are the Reapers defeated?" Hackett demands the moment he appears. "Did the Crucible work?" The admiral appears significantly more haggard than he did ten days earlier, a more visceral reminder of the radically changed galaxy than Victus needs on two hours sleep.

"Admiral Hackett, you're on the _Normandy_?" Victus shakes off his surprise to answer the question. "Yes, Admiral." Victus looks up as Terion yawns, showing all his teeth. Jane's remembered delight whispers through his mind, a dull, rusted blade scraping along the inside of his skull. "When the Crucible fired, the ground units turned to dust and the ships all shut down. Shepard did it; she saved us all. Or at least most of us. As far as we can tell, the geth were destroyed as well."

"As was the _Normandy's_ AI." The admiral lets out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging as if he's carried them up around his ears for days. He probably has. "I feel like we've been stranded without word for years. Did the turian fleet make it to their rendezvous?"

"They did. Commodus has them on course to Palaven." Victus catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He gives Ralayis a weak smile as she hurries in and places a cup of _amarceru_ on the console next to him. She presses a hand over his for a moment before she backs over to the wall. The last week has nurtured far too much over-familiarity, but everyone is so raw and she's been such a lifesaver that he doesn't have the heart to call her out on it.

When they won the war, everything was supposed to be sunshine, grilled _drellak_ burgers, and long vacations in the sun. Instead, it's just a new war and a different hell: dark, dank days of black skies, freezing temperatures, sooty rain and snow, mud, and shortages … of everything.

Victus stifles yawn after yawn as he listens to Hackett report on the Alliance, asari, and quarian ships. His flagship, already badly damaged in the battle, had been all but destroyed by the Crucible's blast, falling out of FTL before reaching the rendez-vous.

"It took the fleet three days to find us and another to evacuate the survivors," Hackett says, leaning heavily on the QEC console. "Specialist Traynor repairing the _Normandy's_ QEC may just have saved everyone from going mad. Not knowing if the Crucible worked or if we were still at war has weighed heavily on everyone." He lets out a long sigh. "We're still a few days out—we can only travel as fast as the most damaged ship—but we're on our way back."

Vakarian pushes in next to the admiral before either can say anything further. There's no smile of greeting from the other _torin_ , no hint of relief, just dread and a frantic sort of hair-trigger distress. "What about Shepard?" he asks, his voice taut, subvocals flat. "Why isn't she there? Is she all right?" His mandibles twitch once, the sidelong glare that passes between he and Hackett telling Victus that the interruption is against direct orders.

Victus merely shakes his head, reality hitting him hard and all of the sudden: he's been too busy to do much other than keep moving, but it's been nine days. Nine of the longest days on record. Clamps fasten around his throat, squeezing tighter as he tries to form the words to tell Garrus that his best friend is missing and after nine days, presumed dead.

Terion steps up next to him and salutes. "Advisor Vakarian. Admiral Hackett." Victus notes the admiral's reaction to Garrus being addressed first, and thus as the superior officer. Hackett's expression betrays his realization that Garrus Vakarian is more than merely Shepard's XO. Victus's _pahir_ clears his throat before continuing, "We have been searching the Crucible and surrounding space for more than a week, sirs, but the area is heavily littered with debris. We'll need air support to clear the area to do a proper search."

"You'll have it," Hackett says, straightening and giving them a starched, last-word-on-it sort of nod. "The remaining shuttles are still occupied with SAR efforts?"

Victus's voice burrows its way through his closed windpipe, and he grips Terion's arm, easing his _pahir_ back off the pad. Unable to meet Garrus's stare for more than a split-second at a time, Victus focuses on Hackett's less demanding presence. Vakarian feels like a brooding time bomb, as if he's barely containing the urge to kick Hackett off the pad and drill Victus for details.

"Yes," Victus says at last, answering Hackett's question. "We cleared the city—although stragglers continue to come in—then moved onto the Citadel. Despite the heavy destruction, we find a few more survivors every day." Opening his omnitool, he sends his daily logs to the admiral. "We've got the base here cleaned up and one of the buildings repaired to house the hospital. SAR teams are raiding the Citadel for any medical equipment and supplies that they can find. Luckily, C-Sec built massive shelters in the deepest, most fortified areas of the ward arms."

Pausing, he takes a long draught of _amarceru_ , the bitter heat welcome as he fights his body's demand to lie down right there. "With the hospital up and running, we've focused on building secure housing for the civilians. The military personnel are housed in tents around the perimeter of the base." He sighs and half-falls back into a braced position against the console. Spirits, he needs to return to bed for a couple of hours before Wrex arrives at the door, bellowing the abuse he calls a krogan wake-up call.

Victus clears his throat and takes another drink. "Keepers are swarming all over the Citadel, repairing the vital systems first. I sent an engineering team to the relay yesterday but won't hear back from them until later today or tomorrow." He turned away and covered a yawn with his hand. "Sorry, Admiral. It's the middle of the night here."

The admiral dismisses any offense with a wave. "You have my apologies for calling so early, Primarch. I'm sure you understand our eagerness to discover the rest of the galaxy's fate." Hackett's smile is thin and wan. "And thank you for holding down the fort. I can finally relax knowing that our people back there are in good hands." Hackett's turn to yawn. It seems lack of sleep and stress aren't limited to those on Earth. "I'll go through these reports and call back at 1200 local time." He slants the time as a question.

Victus nods. "I'll make sure to be here for that, barring the morning scans or sweeps finding Shepard. If they do, my assistant, Lt. Ralayis Meran, will be able to help you. She's my feet on the ground while I'm searching and knows what's going on better than I do." He waves the young _tarin_ forward so that Hackett will know her face if she needs to take the call.

Hackett nods to acknowledge Ralayis. "Later on, then. Hackett, out."

Vakarian leaps in to stop the admiral from disconnecting the call. "Primarch, call me …." He stops, no doubt trying to find a way to phrase the demand as something more request and less order. Garrus is a better turian than he gives himself credit for.

"I'll call you as soon as I get back to base later today," Victus promises, meaning it. As crazy as the search has made him over the past week, it must have been so much worse for Garrus.

"Thank you." Vakarian backs away, his low, flicking mandibles and subvocals betraying his continued worry, but he allows Hackett to close the channel. " _Normandy_ , out."

On his way back to bed, talons dragging through the ever-present mud, Victus wonders whether Hackett's weariness will save Garrus a lecture on ignoring the _Normandy's_ chain of command. The thought of the other _torin's_ reaction to that draws out a bleak smile.

_We'll find her, Garrus. Whatever shape Jane is in, we'll find her and have closure one way or the other._

* * *

"Primarch," Wrex calls, striding through the door of the command center at 0630, "we've got the probe scans from overnight sorted and plotted." The fact that the krogan leader doesn't make reference to pyjaks anywhere in the sentence drops Victus's heart into his boots. Wrex has made Primarch Pyjak a trend among certain, less reverent, search party members, so the sudden decorum sets off all of his alarms.

"Wrex?" he asks, his subvocals demanding that the krogan just spit it out, however horrible the news is. He braces against the table even as Wrex slots the OSD into the computer and the data appears in holographic form.

"We found her. We were looking in the wrong place," the krogan says simply, but there is no relief … no celebration in his voice. "At least we think it's her. There's a faint lifesign reading here." He marks the spot in red, the location giving Victus back some of his hope. The readout comes within 65% of Shepard's stats, an acceptable margin for error. "She must have been thrown clear by the explosions."

Victus leans in. "She's within the Citadel's air and gravity." Looking up into Wrex's eyes, his frantic with hope, he asks, "Is she stable there? Not escaping or being pulled down?"

Wrex nods. "Her position is stable." He zooms in to show a misshapen form spinning slowly over the course of the scan. "Doesn't look like she's in very good shape, but the shuttle is outside and ready to go."

"Don't worry," Ralayis says when he spins to face her, "I'm all over the call with Admiral Hackett." Her smile is warm when she squeezes his forearm. "Go, bring her home."

He's already running, beating Terion out the door, sprinting down the slippery, makeshift ramp system to the street. The rest of the crew is already in the shuttle—Cortez in the pilot seat, Jack, Miranda Lawson, and Urdnot Grunt strapped into the back—when he leaps inside and throws himself into a seat. They all nod, but no one speaks as they settle in for the twenty minute flight.

Victus recites silent prayers over and over in his head, his talons thumping out a sing-song rhythm against the decking. The chanting is a neurotic habit that he's developed as they searched, partly to keep his hope alive, and partly to keep himself from dwelling on thoughts of what happens when they find her. It's far too easy to give in to the love that pulses through him every second ... to imagine finding her, nursing her back to health, finally finding a way to go on their date … feeling the softness of her kisses … her warm palms calloused and dry in his talons … the comforting weight of her in his arms ….

_Spirits, just let her be alive. Anything else, we can overcome. Just let her be alive. Anything else, we can overcome._

As he chants the two lines over and over again, he chews on the outside of his tongue. It's another stress habit, and it leaves his tongue aching by the end of the day, but clenching his teeth had left him with blinding headaches. The sore tongue proves far less debilitating.

Heart beating quick and light, entire body tingling with anticipation, he strains against the physics of time and distance as if he can use the power of his mind to push the shuttle faster or bend space to warp them there instantly. He growls low in his throat and glances over his shoulder at the read out in the cockpit, the red blip drawing closer with agonizing sloth.

Terion presses his shoulder into Victus's, the gesture one of companionship and comfort. It stills the primarch's thumping, his boot making solid contact with the shuttle floor. At least for a few moments.

"Coming up on the area now, Primarch," Cortez calls through the comms. "There's good air density although gravity is pretty much zero'd out up here, so tie yourselves in before you do anything crazy back there."

Victus snaps open his restraint and jumps up, grabbing the tether that ties him to the shuttle when he searches unstable or dangerous areas. It's a wise precaution that allows them to reel him in if he gets hurt rather than risking someone else. Right then, it's a fiddly torment that keeps snagging on shaking talons, tangling as he unwinds it and clips it to the belt around his waist.

He hooks onto the shuttle's frame and looks over at Wrex, the krogan moving with veritable sloth across the troop compartment. Fifteen impatient reprimands fly up into his mouth only to be choked back before the krogan hooks on, nods, and hits the control to open the hatch. Spirits! Finally!

Victus shakes out his hands to stop their trembling and activates his omnitool, pulling up the scan on the small viewer.

"That's as close as I want to get," Cortez informs them. "Good luck, gentlemen, my prayers are with you."

When the pilot brings the shuttle to a relative stop, Victus kicks off the frame a little too hard, launching himself out and away from the hatch. The speed leaves his tether snapping and banging off the shuttle door instead of unravelling smoothly, and Jack curses, barking at him to hold up while she untangles it. No. He snaps back: something rude. Shepard's signal is close, a small tangle won't impede him.

Pulsing his hardsuit thrusters he soars around bits and pieces of ships and buildings, well … around most of them, anyway. He earns another curse from Jack as he slams straight into a huge chunk of debris, then bounces off to ram through the floating body of a hanar. The tentacles wrap around him like the arms of a desperate lover. Guilt doesn't slow his haste as he wrestles free and flings the corpse away from him, into the debris field. Normally, they tag bodies with transponders for the retrieval teams, but he turns his back on the hanar as it floats away. The dead can wait; Jane can't. She's already waited far too long.

Keeping on eye on his omnitool, Victus blasts his thrusters, powering through the pieces of what was once a fighter and its turian pilot, closing in on the tiny blip of hope. It's irrational, his headlong rush. Irrational and dangerous. Jane has waited nine days, another five minutes will make little difference. But still … after so many days, he knows the odds are stacked against Jane's survival. Her armour will have administered medigel to stop any bleeding and seal wounds, and the scans found life signs, something that after nine days with no food or water, he assumes can be blamed on the tech implanted during the Lazarus project.

Damn it! He needs to get to her. Days floating in the ruins or not, every second counts, and they tick past in time to his heartbeat, hope refusing to submit to pragmatism.

_Just let her be alive. Anything else, we can overcome. Just let her be alive. Anything else, we can—_

Wrex lets out a bellow of triumph. "I've got her."

Victus hits his left-hand thrusters, spinning toward the krogan, almost missing the muttered, "At least, I think it's her," that follows. Almost.

He understands the krogan's doubt the moment he gets close enough to see her body in Wrex's arms. He freezes, every nerve suddenly as rimy as they were molten and electric the moment before. For the space of several breaths, his brain flails, trying to understand how Wrex is holding her to make it look like large pieces of her are missing.

Her legs … they have to be blocked … hidden behind Wrex's bulk. He's the size of a skycar, after all.

In the moment that Victus realizes that the Crucible's explosion stole her legs, it also steals all the warmth and air in his hard suit. He gasps, hands lifting to his throat, his heart pounding so hard inside his skull that its thunder drowns out the voices on his radio.

65% of Shepard's stats … he'd thought it an acceptable margin for error, but it wasn't a margin of error at all … only 65% of Jane remains.

How can she still be alive? Dear spirits … all her hair is burned away, the skin on her head, neck, and arms covered in swaths of blistered and waxy scarlet and patches of scorched black. Most of her armour is melted into slag, huge chunks of it torn away.

"Primarch?" He blinks as Wrex calls his name, breaking through the horror. "She's alive."

Victus nods. That was his prayer. Everything else, they can overcome. He holds out his arms. "I'll take her, Wrex." When the krogan hesitates, he insists through low, growling subvocals: he won't be argued with. Not about that. Gently, carefully, they transfer Jane into his arms, her body cold and stiff, her extremities frozen.

But it's her. Despite her terrible injuries, he knows that it's her. Mandibles trembling, he lets out a soft, low keen. He's found her. He's finally found her.

"Hello, _caris_ ," he whispers, not caring in the slightest who hears him. "I told you I was coming for you. Sorry it took me so long." He swallows, another keen accompanying the half-gasp, half-gulp. Staring down at her closed eyes, their lids sealed with glimmering trails of ice, he says, "I've missed you. Spirits, woman, how I've missed you." Talons latch onto his heart, the cruel squeeze robbing him of air and voice once more. He aches to rest his brow on hers, the desire to brush his mouth plates over her lips tightening that clawed grip until his hold on her slips, the heart-attack level agony leaving him lightheaded.

No, he can't let it swallow him. He gathers her to his chest, cradling her so her head rests between his arm and side. She needs him, and he needs to be there for her. He can collapse, dissolve into helpless wailing, and have a breakdown or ten, but later, once she's being looked after.

"Reel me in," he calls over the radio, his earlier urgency shoving aside the pain. They don't have time … _she_ doesn't have time to fiddle around.

To Jane he says, "Let's get you to the hospital." The rope tugs at his harness, pulling him on a straight path back to the shuttle. "Wrex, watch for debris. Keep my back clear." He shelters his precious burden, his armour taking a few small hits, although Wrex clears away the worst of the hazards. Jane has suffered enough, and he makes a silent vow to protect her the best he can for as long as he can.

A guarded happiness explodes in his chest, its shrapnel tearing a keen through his second larynx. Swallowing hard, he clamps down on the raw, bleeding wounds and says, "You owe me a date, _caris_." He's got to focus on the positive. She doesn't need him weeping over her as if she's already died. She needs him strong and fighting at her side. He's found her. There _is_ hope. "Someplace with candles and shit."

Miranda and Grunt snatch Jane from his arms the moment he reaches the shuttle and place her on a stretcher. Victus sits on the floor next to her, holding her hand in gentle talons as the dark-haired human activates her omnitool, running scans and fussing the entire way back to Earth.

They land just outside the hospital doors, a crowd of doctors and nurses swooping in as the shuttle opens. Victus takes one end of the stretcher, refusing to be bullied from his duty by the porters. They'll steal her from him soon enough, taking her into an arena where he's all but useless. For that moment, he can help, and so he carries Jane into the triage ward, able only to hold her fingers for six heartbeats before he's chased out … banished into exile in the waiting lounge.

* * *

"Primarch," the physician says, his tone and posture defeated and … lazy. Perhaps he's just exhausted, but Victus isn't feeling the slightest bit generous. Slouching against the counter, the doctor plays with the corner of Shepard's chart. The information is handwritten on scraps of paper, some of which have scorched edges. He believes the human saying is, 'beggars can't be choosers', the idiom especially true in post-Reaper-War London. "Commander Shepard is in extremely critical condition."

Victus feels ice water splash into the pool of molten rage in his belly. They haven't come that far to let some too-tired-to-bother surgeon let Shepard die. The primarch fixates on the chart, her missing limbs indicated by thick black slashes of marker. For a half-second, he allows doubt to creep in. Is he being selfish, clinging to her … insisting that they drag her back from the cliff's edge where she teeters, so close to toppling over?

"I'm afraid that her implants just keep restarting a dead body." The man gulps and steps back when Victus's stare snaps up to grab his in sharp talons. He gulps again, his throat-lump bobbing several times, and Victus can smell fear in the man's sweat, acrid and sour. "At this point, I think it would be kindest to sever the connection to the master implant and let the commander pass quietly."

No! One hand slices the air and then slams against the counter hard enough to make the nurses jump. No! Shepard has fought like hell, implants or not, and she's going to be given every chance. He closes on the surgeon in one stride, towering over the man. "If you aren't willing to put in the time and effort, I'll find someone who will." Leaning in, but being careful not to make the slightest contact, he lowers his subvocal register to one that borders on threatening. "She is the only reason any of us are still here, and you will treat her like a living, viable patient until which time her brain and her heart stop of their own volition."

"Sir … Primarch Victus, they already have … several times. The biometrics from her armour show that she has failed over two dozen times." He backs up far enough to look up, meeting Victus's threat with more guts than the primarch gave him credit for. "She has third degree burns over fifty percent of her body. The explosions violently amputated both legs and her left arm. Her entire body is riddled with shrapnel ..." He trails off and then sighs, his hands lifting in a helpless sort of shrug.

Victus shakes his head. His heart pounds in his throat, the pressure … the constant throbbing ... leaving him dizzy and nauseated. Pressing a hand to his temple, he wrestles himself under control. "I stepped out of that shuttle to collect her. I held her hand all the way back, and I helped carry her in here." His turn to swallow hard enough to make his throat click, but it finally eases the pressure enough to think clearly. "You don't need to tell me how badly she's hurt."

With clarity, comes reason, and he backs up a step, taking a deep breath that calms the fury. He's not winning any friends in the Alliance ranks, and he's going to need them to help Jane.

"As of this second, everyone is going to stop telling me what's wrong with her and what can't be done," he says, pleased with how rational he sounds. "Instead, they're going to tell me what's viable and what the options are to save her life." Raising his brow plates, he leans down to meet the surgeon on a level. "If she's died and come back over two dozen times in the past nine days, it means she's fighting like hell. The least we can do is fight just as fucking hard. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

After a long moment of staring at Shepard's chart, the surgeon lifts it from the counter and nods. "Very well. She'll be in surgery for at least twelve hours. If you leave your contact information, the nurses will be able to find you to give you hourly updates." Looking up, he gives Victus a crooked, wry smile. "I don't envy your political rivals."

Victus shrugs. "One fights for what matters, Dr. Ziang … for what strikes closest to home. Right now, nothing matters more than her." He spins on his talons, marching toward the couches along the far wall of the waiting room. "And the nurses will be able to find me right here to report in."

He stops halfway and turns back. "Wait. I want to see her first." When the doctor shakes his head, Victus sets his shoulders and arches his neck, working the arrogant primarch angle. "If there's a chance she might not come out of this surgery, I need to see her before she goes in."

Ziang sighs and waves to a nurse. "Please take the primarch to see Commander Shepard. Give him a mask, and make sure he goes through decon a few times."

Victus hesitates. It didn't occur to him that he might complicate her recovery. Still, he needs to see her. Numb … wrung out from a long day of being tossed about in emotional storms … he needs to see her, to get the chance to cradle her fingers in his … to stare at her until he convinces himself she's not a mirage that will dissipate with a breath.

He ties the surgical mask over his nose and mouth, then follows the nurse through the door into a long, white corridor. Silence presses in around them, the closed doors on both sides leaving him airless … caught in limbo, a purgatory not unlike the endless corridors he searches in his nightmares.

Then a door opens, ultraviolet lights sweep over him, and she's there. Tubes and wires connect her to a large computer, IV's, and oxygen. His stare slides over the many things keeping her alive to focus on her.

Jane.

She's a scarlet face, scarred and tattered, peeking out amidst bandages and white, crisp sheets. Somehow, out of the sundered armour, clean and cared for, she seems so much smaller and more fragile.

The nurse—he notices that she's asari—rolls a chair over next to the bed and gives him a tight smile. "I'll be back when they're ready to prep her for surgery."

He opens his mouth to thank her, but the continued, floating airlessness steals the words before they can escape. Grabbing the back of the chair, he tries to anchor himself, the past couple of weeks suddenly seeming to have been some vague sort of dream. Denial … it has to be denial. His talons sink into the back of the chair. If it's all some dream, the final battle has yet to happen and Jane is still out there somewhere, whole and healthy, laughing at one of Garrus's ridiculous jokes.

Stepping around the chair, he sinks onto the seat and reaches out, gentle talons whispering along the warm, solid length of her right arm. Somehow, it came through without more than a couple of scratches, spared while the rest of her limbs were torn from her body.

"Jane." Her name hovers in the still air between them until he slips his talons under her fingers. "They're going to be taking you into surgery in a few minutes," he says, the dissociation settling as his thumb brushes across her knuckles. "I told them I had to see you before they started, because I need to make sure that you know I'm here, and I'm waiting for you."

He bends to rest his head on the mattress next to her hand and breathes her in. It's there. Her scent barely registers above hospital and everything else, but it's there. "Spirits," he says and sighs, "I've been going crazy trying to find you. Now that I have, you've got to keep fighting. I'm going to be here every second, fighting with you and for you, but I can't do it alone."

A soft keen rolls up his throat, a faint warble of frustration. Everything he feels is too intense, too huge and overwhelming to squeeze down into words.

"I love you." He nods, the three words encapsulating the essence of it. "That's what it amounts to. I love you so much that I don't think I can bear losing you, so you've got to suck it up and fight like hell for us." Careful not to move her hand, he nuzzles the backs of her fingers. "I'm sorry if it hurts and it's hard, but you can't take the easy way out."

"Primarch?" He nods without turning toward the door. "They're ready for her."

He nuzzles Jane's fingers again, then pushes up out of the chair.

Bending over her, he just touches his mouth to her brow. "Don't leave me, _caris_ ," he whispers, a cancerous terror erupting in his chest. "Please, you can't leave me now." He closes his eyes against the threat of tears, the tumor growing and spreading until his ribs and keel creak under the pressure like old timber.

He breathes, slow and steady, clinging to control. "As much as I have to do this alone if you leave me, dear spirits, Jane, I don't want to." He pulls back far enough to cup his hand over his mouth, a desperate wall thrown up to hold back the keens trying to batter their way out. "Please don't make me do this alone. That's not the deal." He bites down on the words, not too proud to beg, but the nurse clears her throat. He nods and touches his mask-shrouded mouth to Jane's lips. He needs to let them get to work.

"I love you," he says once more. "Come back to me."

Somehow, he makes it back to the waiting room without seeing where he's going. The storm breaks, tears falling so hard and thick that the world disappears behind a grey curtain of mist. Falling into a chair, he cradles his head in his hands, elbows slamming into his knees. He covers his mouth to muffle the escaping keens, relief melting the steel that's held him upright and kept him going. Without his stoic armour, he's left raw … bleeding as he's torn between hope and fear, two alpha varren fighting over scraps.

Distant footsteps echo against the concrete floor, and the chair next to him lets out a jagged screech, its legs scraping across the floor as someone sits next to him. A comforting arm slips around his shoulders.

" _Pari_?"

Victus wipes at the tears on his face, the movements almost vicious, then looks up at his _pahir._ He supposes that's what he is now and lets out a short sigh of relief as he sets Primarch Victus aside in favour of _Pari_ and Adrien, the _torin_ who loves Jane Shepard.

Terions lifts a hand to gesture toward Miranda Lawson, the woman standing a few metres away, posture stiff, almost regal, her hands clasped behind her back. "Ms. Lawson wants to assist the doctors, but they won't let her get involved unless she has permission from someone Shepard gave her power to." He shrugs. "I'm not sure what that means. It didn't translate well."

"Power of attorney," Lawson offers. The woman steps forward, relaxing a little. "Legal permission to make decisions for her if she's incapacitated." She pauses and squares her shoulders, as if bracing for a fight. "I'm not sure what Shepard has told you about me, if anything," she says, "but I ran the Lazarus Project. I was in charge of bringing Shepard back after she died on Alchera. I know her implants and physiology better than anyone. I can help them save her." Quick, efficient hands tug the tie out of her hair, then pull the thick mass away from her face, fastening it into a tail on the back of her head.

_Tarc!_ How had he forgotten? Shepard had told him about the Lazarus Project. Victus stares at Lawson for a good ten seconds. His initial flare of joy cools to something less sure when he remembers Shepard's description of the pain and mental anguish she went through thanks to her first resurrection. Would she even want another? Damn it.

Of course, the last time, she'd been brought back to fight a war. She awakened to fighting and death. This time, she's being saved to have a life: a chance at peace and love and all the things she told him she wanted that last night.

Victus pushes out of his chair and paces to the window. Rain pours down, clattering against the heavy plastic sheeting that obscures the bleak world on the other side. If he insists on bringing Jane back, it's to a long, agonizing fight and a ruined world. Setting aside his own wishes and hopes, he brings the Primarch back into the equation, because Adrien can only make one decision when it comes to Jane. The primarch has a better shot of making the choice that's best for Shepard.

Is it arrogance to believe she'd be willing to fight and suffer for a chance at the life she wanted after the war … a life with him? She might well hate him for dragging her back to a devastated galaxy and everything that means to her recovery. Lawson doesn't possess the resources she once had. Performing miracles like regrowing limbs is impossible, at least for the foreseeable future.

_Tarc_. If Jane hates him, she hates him. There's only one decision to be made. He turns to face Lawson and his _pahir._

"Garrus Vakarian holds Shepard's power of attorney," he says, using the words to brace himself for the fight to come. "I'll contact him and get him to send whatever permissions are needed." And with that, he strides for the door, hurrying across the base to the comm room.

_Please don't hate me for not being able to let you go._

* * *

(A-N: I thought I'd put Adrien out of his misery and continue right on with this chapter. That probably means a slightly longer wait for the next one while I catch up on my other projects. Thanks so much for the support, as always. Hugs.)


	13. Chapter Thirteen -- Signs and Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A benign tumour of joy grows to block his throat as he listens to Joker and Alliance control converse through the last few minutes of the Normandy's approach. For a moment, he feels like a child again, standing at the Cipritine docks, clinging to his matrula's hand as they await his patrem's ship. Then it appears through the turbulent, grey skies. The Normandy, elegant and beautiful beyond words. It's her home … and if he's honest about it, he's considered it his home as well … the place where his heart dwells. In seconds, it swoops down, a perfect docking. The clamps boom out a solid latch, the ship held just above the ground.

**Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

**Matrula** \- Mother (Familiar form **Mari** equivalent to mom)

**Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

**Pahir** \- Son

**Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

**Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

The _Normandy_ returns to Earth two weeks after Shepard's rescue, the triumph and exultation accompanying the frigate's arrival undampened by a torrential downpour. London's inhabitants have grown used to the almost constant frigid and muddy rain. Victus scarcely grumbles as he sloshes through a good five centimetres of mud on his way to the docks.

Once Hackett made contact, Victus bumped repairing a docking site up to the highest priority. The _Normandy's_ arrival is a significant event, and one he plans to turn into a celebration. The people, while they cling to hope with desperate, tenacious fingernails and talons, need to see the reminder of their victory, right there, in their eyelines. Shepard's ship is the next best thing to the woman herself, and she lies sleeping, tucked away from prying eyes.

The massive tent with its banquet floor has been packed with people from first light. The day before, a group of soldiers from all the different races flew over to the continent, bringing in enough dressed meat to feed a large army. The smell from the roasting pits over by the river makes his belly sing, and his tastebuds sorry that he'll only be able to eat MRE's, along with the rest of the dextro contingent. However, the laughter ringing out over the sound of rain pounding against plastic tarping more than makes up for it.

A soft smile eases the tight muscles in his face as he thinks of the one to whom they owe their lives and the celebration. Shepard still hasn't opened her eyes. Although the doctors assure him that she's healing as well as can be expected, Victus counts the minutes until Chakwas can give him a prognosis he trusts. As helpful as she's been, he doesn't know or trust Miranda Lawson. She was Cerberus, and while he owes them for Shepard's life, their motives unleash a nest of _netichiks_ beneath his plates.

A benign tumour of joy grows to block his throat as he listens to Joker and Alliance control converse through the last few minutes of the _Normandy's_ approach. For a moment, he feels like a child again, standing at the Cipritine docks, clinging to his _matrula's_ hand as they await his _patrem's_ ship. Then it appears through the turbulent, grey skies. The _Normandy_ , elegant and beautiful beyond words. It's her home … and if he's honest about it, he's considered it his home as well … the place where his heart dwells. In seconds, it swoops down, a perfect docking. The clamps boom out a solid latch, the ship held just above the ground.

The ramp lowers after what feels like a half hour, but probably amounts to five minutes judging by the speed Vakarian flies down the ramp. A wry grin spreads across Victus's face, his mandibles twitching as he tries to suppress his delight in Vakarian's lack of 'give a _tarc_ ' for protocol, the _torin_ pushing past Hackett to race across the yard.

"Where is she?" Vakarian demands. Sliding to a stop in the mud, he almost falls, Victus's arm and a quick snatch at the primarch's armour the only things that keep him on his feet. "How's she doing? Has there been any change?"

Wrapping one hand around the back of his friend's neck, Victus leans in, willing the other _torin_ to calm down. "There's no change." He laces his subvocals with subtle commands for Vakarian to keep his cool when telepathy doesn't appear to work. As much as the primarch sympathizes with the torment Vakarian has been through over the weeks since the _Normandy_ fled Earth's orbit, freaking out won't help in the slightest. "I'll take you to her as soon as I talk to Hackett." He nods toward the hospital door. "Go get changed into something clean and dry. You can't see her like this anyway. Her room has to be kept as sterile as possible."

Vakarian grumbles, then spins, craning his neck as he searches the crowd. When Chakwas appears, picking her way through the slop with much greater care, Vakarian lifts a hand to wave her over. She returns the gesture with a sort of weary air. She's been consulting via the QEC, which must be wearing enough without a turian leaning over her shoulder making himself a considerable nuisance.

Hackett stops to speak to a cluster of Alliance soldiers, so Chakwas reaches Victus first.

"Doctor, welcome back." Victus reaches out to shake her hand.

"I'm glad to be back," the woman says, looking around the base with a sad but dignified air. When her eyes meet his once more, her entire presence seems to say, 'we'll make it better'. "Another couple of days, there would have been a murder." As she says the last, she turns a glare toward Vakarian. Instead of pushing the issue, she squeezes Victus's arm and moves to walk past. "I'll take this one off your hands and get him cleaned up enough to go in and see her."

Victus smiles his thanks. "I'll be a few minutes behind you." And he will be. First thing, after wolfing down a quick breakfast in the armchair next to Shepard's bed, he headed out to finish preparations for the celebration. He's been away from Shepard's side for hours: too long. The staff set up a cot in Shepard's room when he made it clear that he intended to sleep there, but he rarely uses it, falling asleep in the reclined chair, her fingers resting in his talons.

He gives Vakarian a gentle shove toward the hospital, then turns to find Hackett. Yes, he's been too long away, feeling Shepard's absence like a sort of slow-burning panic now that the excitement is over. The _Normandy_ is home, and superstitious or not, he believes that Vakarian's presence—being surrounded by her crew—will bring Shepard back to them.

"Admiral Hackett, welcome home," he calls, striding across the yard to clasp the man's wrist.

"Thank you, Primarch." Hackett looks around as if he's not quite sure if he's dreaming, or maybe not quite sure if he has, in fact, returned to Earth. Still, the admiral puts on a brave face as he turns back. "You've done wonders," he says, squeezing Victus's wrist before releasing it. "Even with your reports, I didn't imagine that so much would be rebuilt."

"It's amazing what you can do with working recycling facilities." Victus holds out a hand to usher the admiral toward the command building. "Thank the spirits the Reapers didn't consider junk yards worth their time, because they've saved our asses." He smiled, grateful for that small, but invaluable, oversight on the Reapers' part. "Materials from the facilities are building bases like this one all over the world."

Hackett shakes his head. "Earth was lucky as hell you were here, Victus," he says, his tone weary but sincere. "I didn't sleep more than twenty minutes at a time until we spoke with you on the QEC." He glances toward the doors as two Alliance guards open them, the council standing at the threshold.

Victus stops and offers his hand to Hackett again. "I've spent long enough away from Jane, so I'll leave you to the council and hunt you down again later."

Hackett laughs, a bitter sound. "Abandoning me to the wolves?" He rolls his shoulders then sighs and nods. "Fair enough, I suppose. You've had to deal with them for weeks."

Victus watches after the admiral for a few steps, then turns toward the next building, giving in to the impossible gravity of that silent room and those warm, calloused fingers. He hears Vakarian in the shower when he steps into the locker room to change. The _torin_ is muttering to himself, mostly subvocal—anyone other than a turian wouldn't have been able to hear it over the spattering water. Amusement cooling and sharpening to concern, Victus scowls and tries to make out what Vakarian is saying.

"After everything she's been through … " The low mutter rolls with heavy undertones of rage and threat: enough to send shivers of dread slicing down Victus's spine. "... if she doesn't wake up I'm going to make it my life's goal to find every one of your houses and reduce them to rubble."

Victus stuffs his filthy suit into his laundry bag and grabs a towel, purposely making as much noise as he can when he enters the shower area. "Vakarian?" he says as he steps into the curtained area next to his ex-adviser. "You cracking up on me?"

Nothing more than splashing water and the harsh scent of antiseptic wash answers him for a few seconds before a soft grunt rolls out from the other side of the curtain. "Shepard ever told you about her father?" Unlike the earlier threat, the words come out strained and flat as if Vakarian is struggling to remain in control.

Victus thinks back to his nightly meetings with Shepard, the two of them hidden away in the underdeck. "Sure, he was a religious man … a leader of their order."

Another grunt. "Yeah, they were pacifists and moved to Mindoir to live without technology. He believed that going backwards 300 cycles would get them closer to their god." The water turns off, the shower room suddenly silent other than the odd spatter of water hitting the floor.

Victus draws in a deep breath of steamy air, letting it out as a sigh. "She told me she still found herself praying to her father's god sometimes. The night after Sanctuary, I heard her whisper a prayer for all the souls murdered there." He places his hand on the water control, but doesn't activate it.

"I never understood how she could believe in a god that kept throwing flaming piles of _tarc_ at her." The curtain jerks back, a sharp scrape of metal rings along the bar. "If that bastard exists and he lets her die ... ." Victus turned to exit the shower at the soft keen that broke through Vakarian's control.

"Garrus—"

"I've got to go take about fifty shots and submit to every scan Chakwas can think of before she'll let me into Shepard's room," Garrus says, cutting him off. "See you in there."

For a moment, Victus considers going after him, but decides to see how the other _torin_ feels after he's with Shepard. If the volatility doesn't subside, he'll address it. Shepard doesn't need that sort of energy around her. He slaps the water control and grabs the bottle of wash from the shelf. Either way, he needs to be in there when Garrus arrives.

"Hello, _caris_ ," Victus says, fifteen minutes later when he steps through the second decon field. "Sorry I haven't been around all morning." Leaning over her, he nuzzles the bandages protecting her burned and shredded face. A long sigh escapes as he folds into his chair. "The _Normandy_ is now docked about a hundred metres away." Chuckling softly, he lets out a low rumble. "I admit it, I got emotional seeing her again. Don't tell anyone."

Sliding his talons beneath her blankets, he cradles her fingers in his talons, his thumb caressing the line of bone from her wrist to her first knuckle. "Garrus and Dr. Chakwas are getting cleaned up to come in. They need all their scans and immunizations first." Lifting Shepard's hand to his mouth, he nuzzles the warm, soft knuckles. "Garrus is a bit frantic, _caris._ So don't worry if he seems angry. It's not with you."

Hearing a soft, almost-moan, from the door, he turns, offering Garrus a flat sort of smile. He nuzzles Shepard's hand again, then stands, moving to the chair on the other side of her bed. The _torin,_ Shepard's dearest friend, closes the distance from door to bed with painful, reluctant sloth.

Soft keens roll from Vakarian's throat as he stalls at the foot of the bed, staring down at the cut where her legs end far too soon. For long moments, he doesn't move, his entire bearing that of someone hoping they'll wake from a dream, but then he bursts into action, hurrying around the bed to scoop Shepard's hand into both of his, holding those delicate digits to his face.

"Spirits, Shepard, I've been so worried about you." He folds into the chair, careful but without removing her hand from his cheek. "All I've been able to think about is making sure you're okay." He chuffed, a low, commanding sound. "Now wake up and let's start getting you back on your feet." He glances toward her missing legs as he speaks, but doesn't flinch. "You've been through worse than this with less to come back to, so up! I need my best friend, and the primarch needs his girlfriend."

Garrus nuzzles her fingers and the bandages over her brow before settling back into the chair. "We're both right here, and we're not going anywhere until you wake up, so hurry. I bore easily, and you don't want to see what I get up to when I'm bored."

Victus smiles and relaxes back into the chair when Vakarian seems content to leaving his rage outside the door. Shepard will return. He knows it. He's known it since they found her alive. Cerberus implants or no, Shepard waited to be found. Once she's healed enough, she'll wake up. Nothing else makes sense.

* * *

She lies so very still. He avoids looking at the abrupt drop and flat plain of blankets where her legs and arm should be, not because he's squeamish, but because they're a reminder of just how injured she is. And how many weeks she's remained stubbornly asleep.

And how slim the odds are that he'll ever stare into the fresh spring emerald of her eyes again.

Instead, he clings to her hand, tiny fingers peeking out from between his much larger ones. He leans down to nuzzle the cool, unmoving digits. Did they do the right thing? Did he insist on hooking her up to all these machines and the seemingly endless hours of surgery for her sake or for his?

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the sound loud in the tomb-like silence. "If you suffer because I couldn't bear the thought of a galaxy without your presence, I'm so very sorry." Bending down, he nuzzles her fingers, willing them to move, even slightly. "I hope you'll understand that I can't let you go, not without a fight. If you hate me for it … " The breath he releases drags a soft keen along with it. "... well, at least you'll be out there hating me."

Leaning back, he allows his eyes to drift closed, stealing a few moments of precious sleep. He sleeps nowhere else since the crew found her, his spine bearing witness with its strident complaints, but he can't leave her side. If she takes her last breath, he will be there to kiss her goodbye, and if she wakes, his face will be the first thing she sees.

As he sleeps, he dreams of the way she clung to him in those last moments before the war tore her from his arms. He wakes with her last message soft and sad in his aural canals, and he knows she will pull through. The universe is a selfish bastard, a miser handing out second chances like pieces of platinum, each of which cost some vital organ. She is his second chance, more precious than all the gold and valuables remaining in the broken galaxy.

And so he sits by her side every moment that he isn't in his office reorganizing his government and shuffling resources to rebuild Palaven. He makes deals to utilize human recycling facilities and the asari fabrication facilities on Illium. He makes deals to create a military academy to replenish the obliterated turian forces and fleets. His mornings are spent attached to the QEC, his afternoons working from his chair in her hospital room. Palaven demands that he start home, claiming he can't lead his people from the human homeworld. Dissembling, he claims to need proximity to the council and other leaders, all of them remaining on Earth. For the moment, Earth is the center of the galaxy, and so they allow it, but their grumbling makes it plain that his time by Shepard's side grows short.

"How's she doing?"

The words wake him. Pushing himself up straight in the chair, Victus runs a hand over his face, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep, before gesturing for Vakarian to enter. "The same." He holds a hand out toward the other chair, not that he needs to after the weeks the two friends have spent holding vigil.

Garrus bends over the bed to touch his brow to his best friend's. "She's lazy as all hell." He nuzzles Shepard's temple, then moves to his chair. "Sure, she led us through the war, but now she's just taking the whole vacation thing past the point of good taste."

Victus smiles, blinking back the burning in his eyes, swallowing down the brick wedged in his throat. "I don't know," he says, "I think she's earned a rest." It's an old play, the lines well known, but to break the script feels like bad luck. He watches Vakarian as the _torin_ studies the broken and torn body that forms the center of both their universes, and wonders yet again how it is that Shepard and her XO never took the next step. Leaning back, he releases her hand when he sees Vakarian's eyes glance at it for the fourth time in under thirty seconds.

"When the _Normandy_ was destroyed, her death broke me," Vakarian says, his voice almost too low to hear. Awkward, as if embarrassed that Victus noticed, but grateful, he peels off his gloves and lifts her fingers in gentle talons. The pink digits look tiny and frail cradled in his large hands. "She'd changed me so profoundly that I went back to C-Sec and felt like a stranger … a fraud in my old life." Smiling, he sinks almost bonelessly into his chair, his talons still holding her hand. "She even managed to patch things up between my father and I … a breach I never thought would be bridged." Leaning down, he presses her fingers to his mouth plates, his eyes closing. "She can't help making people love her." He looks up, meeting Victus's eyes with an apologetic flutter of mandible and an embarrassed subvocal rumble. "She's my breath and my blood."

Shaking his head to dismiss the other _torin's_ discomfort, Victus lets out a long, soft breath. "And you are hers."

"I went to Omega just to do … something … anything," Vakarian continues after a long moment. "It didn't matter if I lived or died, I just needed to find an outlet for all the rage. It pulled my squad in and eventually got them killed." His breath whistles as he takes deep, slow breaths. "Then she was there, pulling my ass out of the fire again." He shrugs. "You know her, you've seen her fight … when she came back, the only defence I had against losing her again was keeping that last wall erected between us." After nuzzling her fingers again, Vakarian places her arm on the mattress next to her, covering it with her blankets.

The silence hangs heavy and comfortable, the sort of easy quiet between friends who have no need of filling the silence, the company quite enough on its own. Vakarian leans back, shifting in the large chair to lift a knee over one of the arms, sprawling the best he can before resting his head in one hand and closing his eyes. Victus supposes that the other _torin_ has slept as little as he's managed to.

There's so much to do that the hours spent at Shepard's side amount to an unforgivably selfish indulgence, but he's earned it. She's earned it. All the rest of them—the people she threw herself into the fire for—don't even visit every day. A few drop by for a moment to pat her hand or kiss her brow, and then they go back to the business of living. He rumbles, the subvocals violent enough that Vakarian glances up, his mandibles fluttering before he nods and goes back to dozing. It's what she would want. She'd tell him off for sitting there day in, day out, but even her conscious ire wouldn't shift him.

She went up there alone, faced death and laid there for over a week. She won't wake up alone, not since he can help it. He slides his hand under the blankets, his talons slipping beneath hers, his thumb caressing the backs of her fingers as he dozes off yet again.

* * *

It doesn't happen like in the vids. Shepard doesn't just begin to stir and then, one day, opens her eyes to ask everyone what happened. In the end, the process of waking up takes almost two months. Little by little, atom by atom, synapse by synapse, she returns to them. First she begins to respond to pain. Poking her fingers or the healing stumps of her limbs gets a response. Then she moves her fingers when they take her hand, or her lips move beneath his plates when he kisses her.

Then the really hard stuff begins: the obvious pain her massive burns and wounds cause her. She moans almost constantly, soft cries and screams shatter the space when they change her bandages. Her flesh has been regrowing for months, but not easily and not without all the torment he hoped to spare her. She begins a sleep/wake cycle as well … never fully waking but he can see her eyelids flutter beneath the bandages. The doctors await replacing her eyes until she wakes—like with the rest of her prosthetics—they need to justify the expense with resources so limited.

He suspects that Chakwas won't wait that long, at least if the subtext of her silences and Garrus's work assignments are any indication. She's led several salvage operations to the presidium hospitals to find working or repairable tech, and he's certain that she has begun cloning eyes/optic nerves and ears/inner ear workings along with the specialized nerves needed to make Shepard's prosthetics work.

Unlike the cybernetically enhanced regrown limbs the Lazarus Project gave her when they brought her back nearly two cycles before, this time she's going to have titanium prosthetics. Perhaps someday, things will recover to where giving her new, natural limbs is possible, but it won't be for some time. In fact, he's certain that if Chakwas tells the Alliance that she's growing even those small, but vital parts, she'll be shut down.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, Victus tears himself away from that possibility. Shepard saved them all, and as much as she would insist that they spend the resources on others, the races all owe her whatever they can spare.

While Shepard sleeps, Victus clearly sees that she experiences both dreams and nightmares. He holds her hand through both, talking to her … even singing all the old lays that his _mari_ once sang to him … that Lanira sang to their _pahirs_ … and it seems to help ease her back into quieter sleep. He and Garrus start taking shifts to ensure one of them is always with her in case she wakes up fully, but everything happens in tiny steps.

"How is she doing today?" Dr. Chakwas asks, striding into the room, businesslike and quick. Her omnitool glows on her arm, taking scans that will tell her much more than he can.

"She had a nightmare earlier," Victus reports nonetheless. "She settled after a bit, but something in the way she was moving made me think it might have been about losing her arm and legs." He caresses the hand held in his, and meets the doctor's gaze with a firm one. "How's she doing?"

"Very well. Her burns are 75% healed, the skin grafts on her face are taking very well, and her amputations are almost completely healed." She checks the IV, cannula, and feeding tube. "If she were awake, she'd be ready to start grafting the nerves for her prosthetics." Pausing in her fussing, she leans against the side of the bed, meeting Victus's curiosity evenly. He fights back a grin, his heart suddenly pounding. He knew it! She has something up her sleeve, as the humans say. Spirits, he's been surrounded by humans too long.

"I'm taking Shepard over to the Normandy for surgery tomorrow," the doctor says, a clear 'but' in her tone. "I'm jumping the gun a little, but she's definitely on the road to recovery." She fiddles with her omnitool for a moment before letting out a grumbling sigh. "I don't want her waking up without being able to see or hear. To hell with misappropriating needed resources."

"Some things are more important than skipping a few rations or taking an extra week to repair a ship." Victus grins and nods. "We owe everything to her, and I'm glad not everyone has forgotten that." He stands, leaning forward to meet her stare: two conspirators pouring over the map of the big heist. "So, what do you need from me?"

* * *

"Sh." Victus slips his talons into Shepard's fingers, gently removing the fistful of blanket clutched in her grip. "Easy now, you're okay. It's just a dream." He holds her palm against the soft flesh of his throat as he talks to her: a habit he began weeks before. At least she can _hear_ him through the vibration of his larynx. "Any day now, you're going to be able to hear me when I talk to you."

Shepard stills, and he can tell by the change in her breathing that she's awake. Her eyes remain bandaged after the transplants, as do her ears. Chakwas and Lawson are both very impressed with how well the cloned tissue has taken. It's been six days since he and Vakarian smuggled Shepard out of the hospital in a body bag, returning her by much less convert means nearly a day later. Seeing her in that bag, no matter what he knew to be true … no matter the urgency and need for secrecy ... . Well, after they delivered her to Chakwas's medbay, he walked along the Thames for hours, rain soaking him to the skin, only the thunder of rain pounding against the ruined city drowning out his keens.

"Do you want me to sing to you?" He chuckles, pushing the heartbreak of that terrible bag as far out of his mind as he can. "I have to do all this singing before you can hear and tell me to stop." Her fingers clutch at him, a gentle movement he chooses to believe encourages him, and so he sings a low, traditional turian lay about two bond-mates torn apart by warring tribes. It doesn't have the happiest of endings—turian romances rarely do … sacrifice for the good of all and bearing loss heroically being constant themes—but it expresses everything he feels for the wounded but gorgeous soul lying on the bed.

"When I wake to the last sun my eyes will ever see, its face will bear yours, its light and warmth will bear your touch, and I will carry them with me …."

Her fingers tap against his hide, four soft taps, but each fingertip in turn. Gripping her hand between his, he leans on the edge of the mattress, those fingers clutched to his mouth. "Jane?" His heart pounds so hard he feels faint, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "Jane? Squeeze my talons if you understand me. Can you hear me, _caris_?"

The squeeze that follows could just be his imagination, it's so light, but she nods, a slight tremor. " _Caris_."

The single words grinds from her lips like a brick being dragged out of a wall, but it's unmistakable.

Leaning up, he nuzzles her lips, tears blurring his eyes to where her face is just a wash of bandage white and pink. "Hello, my love." He kisses her again while he scrambles for the call button. "Dear spirits, it's good to hear your voice."

"Adrien." The word grates a little less as it whispers against his mouth plates. Her fingers grip his for another second, then go limp. "Hurts."

"Sh, I know it hurts, _cari_ s," he whispers, struggling to keep the joyous keens from his voice. "Just rest. Chakwas is on her way, and you're okay. You're going to be okay." He clutches her hand to his cheek, Lawson needing to peel him away from the bed when she and Chakwas race in.

He paces the back wall as the doctors assess and treat their conscious patient, and he calls Vakarian, finally able to say the three most beautiful words he remembers uttering.

"Garrus, she's awake."


	14. Chapter Fourteen -- Unsteady Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's propped up on pillows, asleep, and he smiles, her face a balm to soothe that raw, lonely ache. Spirits, she's beautiful: a praela made all the more lovely and fierce for the scars. The simple, smooth beauty of flawless faces and bright, innocent eyes is for the young and naive. It's an empty, fragile beauty more often than not. Jane glows with samitaregia, the brilliance of a strong soul well-used to sacrifice, and her beauty outstrips the stars.

**Samitaregia** \- A guiding light. A light to illuminate one's path. The praela used such lights set into lanterns to guide warriors into battle, and then through the dark curtain of death.

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

 **Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

Victus hurries through the decon area into the hushed quiet of Shepard's room. He's been eyeball deep in approving Palaven's share of the budget for the galactic military academy while Shepard's undergone surgery to replace her limbs. He's kept in contact with Garrus every twenty minutes, the other _torin_ remaining entrenched in the waiting room throughout the entire process, but the long hours have scraped him raw.

She's propped up on pillows, asleep, and he smiles, her face a balm to soothe that raw, lonely ache. Spirits, she's beautiful: a _praela_ made all the more lovely and fierce for the scars. The simple, smooth beauty of flawless faces and bright, innocent eyes is for the young and naive. It's an empty, fragile beauty more often than not. Jane glows with _samitaregia_ , the brilliance of a strong soul well-used to sacrifice, and her beauty outstrips the stars.

Unlike when she slept, the room smells more of her now than antiseptic and death. It's a lovely smell: berries and some sort of spicy flower. She still doesn't have any hair to wash, her scalp still integrating the skin grafts, so someone must have found something pretty to bathe her with.

He strides across the tiles, stopping at the end of the bed. It seems strange—new but wonderful—to see the rise of blankets follow a long line from her hip, spiking at the end in a foot. The prosthesis look more like skeletal legs hiding under the grey wool, but it's a first step. A good step. Lawson and Chakwas intend to get her out of bed and walking that afternoon.

"How did it go?"

He looks up to meet slitted eyes and a sleepy smile. "Dr. Chakwas and Ms. Lawson both said that it couldn't have gone better." Nodding toward the tented blanket over her foot, he lifts a brow plate. "Can you feel the blankets?"

Shepard presses her eyes closed for a moment, then shakes her head. "Nothing. Touch them?"

Reaching out, he gently touches the blade-edge of the foot, grinning when she jumps.

"Oh! Yeah, I felt that." Eyes open once more, she grins. "Nice." Her smile deepens, taking on a serious slant. "And fitting, I suppose, that you're the first one to touch them." She slips her new arm out from under the covers and holds it up. More than her legs, it resembles the limb it replaced. She closes her eyes, her brow furrowing and lips pursing as she pulls the fingers into a fist, then wriggles them.

"Oh, these are good," she says, tapping the tip of her thumb and forefinger together. When she opens her eyes again, she crooks a finger at him. "Come here, Primarch." After another moment of watching and savouring her experimenting with her new limb, he circles the bed, feeling oddly out of sorts moving to the left hand side. With only the one hand to hold, he's spent all his time to her right.

"Take my hand?" she asks, looking a little dubious, as if she believes he has every right to refuse … as if she fears he'll be repulsed by it.

Feeling quite the opposite, he slides his talons into hers, gripping the hand as if he's going to shake it. A smile spreads his mandibles, widening as the soft fingertips of the artificial hand brush over his hide. "It's soft." He caresses and explores the back of her hand, grinning when her upper arm lifts into gooseflesh. "It looks like all the neural connections and sensors are working perfectly."

A crooked smile answers his observation. "You turians and your obsession with soft skin and goosepimples. Who would have thought." She squeezes his hand a little. "Tell me when my grip is tight enough?" She raises her eyebrows.

Giving her a concerned scowl, he makes a show of bracing himself, wincing in preparation for agony. She chuckles and tightens her grip slowly, her eyes glued to his face. When it's a solid, handshake sort of grip, he nods. "That's a good strength right there." She loosens up, then grips again, that time going straight to the same tension.

"Lean in," she says, her smile and her eyes warming, affection making the green depths sparkle in a way that shoves his heart up into his throat, racing so fast he feels light-headed. As he leans in, stopping just far enough from her face to remain focused on those teasing emerald jewels, she reaches up to stroke his face. Her fingers just skim his plates, so he leans in a little.

"You can press harder than that, you're just tickling right now." He nods when she reaches a pleasurable pressure. "Yes, right there."

"How's our patient?" Chakwas asks, announcing her presence even before entering the room. Victus jumps and snaps upright, then chuckles, more embarrassed by his reaction than by being caught.

"The primarch was just helping me calibrate this hand," Shepard say, her grin both teasing and wicked. His heart takes off like it's strapped to booster rockets as she lowers her voice, the tone all smoky suggestion. "All perfectly innocent … unfortunately."

Chakwas chuckles and shakes her head. "You should know by now that it isn't that easy to make me blush, Shepard."

The commander grins and meets Victus's eyes with a slightly cocked eyebrow. "Who says I was trying to make _you_ blush?"

Victus just shakes his head and leans down to brush her livid, healing cheek with a gentle thumb. "It's not that easy to make me blush, _caris_." He winks. "You'll have to do better than that."

Chakwas clears her throat as Miranda Lawson enters the room, and Victus straightens, moving out of the way as the ex-Cerberus operative moves in on the bed, all stiff, business-like efficiency. He watches from a spot near the wall as they test Shepard's limbs and her reflexes. She impresses them with the speed of her recovery. He knows it's not that simple or quick. He sees the fear and pain haunting her eyes when she thinks no one is looking. The physical wounds are always the fastest to heal.

Still, in minutes, Jane's sitting on the side of her bed, a strap cinched around her waist so the two women can help hold her on her feet.

"Adrien?" Jane's voice pulls his attention from the preparations. "Come help?" She holds her hands out in invitation.

His grin feels ridiculously huge, his mandibles taking on a life of their own, threatening to secede from the rest of his face as he stands in front of her and takes her hands. She pulls hard, even with the ladies holding her up from either side, leaning on him for balance as she sways on the strong, light blades.

"You're going to be able to run like a _drellak_ with these," he says, teasing to lighten the tight lines of pain and stress around her eyes and mouth. His gut twists to see it despite knowing that she's in for a long road of pain and that she'll face it bravely.

"Leap tall buildings in a single bound?" She teeters, the small lapse in concentration costing her, but she grins.

"That might be asking for a little much, Shepard," Lawson's reply comes out tight enough to earn a sharp, disapproving cluck from Chakwas. The operative scowls. "I think a set of realistic expectations is best for everyone."

"We'll give you allowances for not understanding the joke, Ms. Lawson," Victus replies, "even though, I'm turian, and I know a Superman reference when I hear it. But, since when has realism had the slightest hold on my Jane?" Victus keeps those green eyes locked onto his. "If you tell her she can't leap over buildings, she'll be out there tomorrow trying until she succeeds."

Shepard grinned, a fiery blush creeping across the bridge of her nose. His heart, already too big for his chest, feels like it's going to crack his keel in two at the delight in her stare. She shrugs, stumbling a little. He catches her, holding her gently in his arms as hers slip around his waist. Shepard looks up, then leans in, her brow resting against his chin as she replies, "Well, I don't know about tomorrow. It might have to wait until the day after."

Victus chuckles, then nuzzles her brow. "Well, all right, but definitely by the end of the week."

He thinks that day might just be his best day in a great many cycles.

* * *

He holds his arms out, hands beckoning as he grins down the pique of her sweat-drenched, exhausted, and furious glare. "Come on, only another five metres." He waves his talons toward his palms. "Five more metres and you can claim your prize."

Shepard releases one of the parallel bars long enough to snatch a small plastic basin off a table and chuck it at his head. A nimble dodge and quick reflexes pluck it from the air and toss it back. She catches it with far less grace, then drops it to the floor as she scrambles to avoid a fall.

"I'm not sure it's such a prize," she says between panting breaths. "More of a massive pain in my ass."

"Me?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "You think I'm the prize? Oh no, you have to walk a whole lot further than five metres to earn this prize." He poses, doing his best to look both regal and beguiling at the same time. She laughs, setting his heart thumping hard and quick, the organ aching with the beauty of that sound. It brightens the endless grey of the days far too infrequently. He reaches into his belt pouch, producing a badly broken, individually wrapped chocolate chip cookie. "No, Jane Shepard, this is your prize."

"Where did you get that?" she asks, her voice a gasp of delight and surprise. Entire manner changing, eyebrows rising toward her hairline, the weight bowing her spine lifting, she walks between the bars, hands and feet shuffling along their length until she snatches the cookie from his talons. "Now, that's a prize." She holds out one arm, wrapping it around his neck as he steps into her, his arms closing around her waist.

"What would I do without you, Primarch Victus?" She embraces him, her body trembling with fatigue and pain.

"Be less one cookie?" he says, the chuckle that follows his words belying the sweet ache in his chest.

Shepard leans into him, her cookie hand wrapping around his waist. "I'd be less a whole lot more than that," she says, her voice a husky whisper. She stares up into his eyes for long seconds, the heat and spark in her gaze warming him through. "If we both survived, weren't you suppose to take me out to dinner?"

His smile actually hurts it stretches so broadly. Amidst all the things she doesn't remember, she remembers him. She remembers that promise. A tsunami of emotion surges over him, months of pain and loss and joy hitting him all at once. His knees weaken, and only Jane's arms clutching at him, needing him to hold her up, keep him from stumbling.

"I've been working on that," he whispers, pressing his cheek to hers. "It took a bit of research, what with not being familiar with Earth and absolutely no restaurants surviving the war." Her chuckle pulls one from him. "Still, I think I've found just the place." He pulls back to meet her eyes, savouring everything he sees in that field of green. Nodding toward the bars, he asks, "Ready to make your way back?"

She grins, wide, cocky, and challenging. "What's my prize for making it back?"

* * *

 **Ylasiun** \- The ancient turian version of heaven. The realm where all honourable warriors spent eternity.

The near black sky pours down rain. Well, not so much rain as a thin, mud slurry. It rains a lot since the end of the war. The precipitation is generally warm, but that's about the best that can be said for it.

Shepard's arm clutches the primarch's waist in a death grip that grows tighter with each step toward the door. Her cane thumps softly across the tile floor, slowing as the hallway runs out. There's nothing to do but step past Garrus and through the portal into the rain.

Victus looks down at her, his heart seizing when he sees the fear twisting her face. "Jane?"

She shakes her head, backing up until his arm halts her retreat. "I can't. I can't go out there, Adrien." She turns toward him a little, staring up into his face, eyes dry but wide and terrified. For that second, her fear tugs at his heart so strongly that whatever she asks of him, he'll agree to it. When she speaks, he can scarcely hear her over the rain. "I'm not ready."

He answers her with a sigh, soft and noncommittal. He looks away to meet the ice-blue of Garrus's stare, needing the space and the other torin's resolve to help him hold firm. Yes, he can hold the line. Shepard's been ready to leave the hospital for nearly a month, but every time she begs off, he allows it, making excuses to himself about her health or the weather. The time has come to ease her from her cocoon.

He knows there's no point in telling her that no one will care about her scars. When he tells her that she's beautiful, she accuses him of wearing biased or faulty eyewear. So, he takes a different tack. "It's raining ... what's that expression? … felines and canines out there. No one is going to be standing out in this downpour waiting to stare at the great Shepard." He leans down, his mouth plates just brushing her brow. "Garrus is right here. You're safe."

Her cane bounces off his spur as she wraps her second arm around him, pressing herself tight. "I used to love the rain." Resting her cheek against his chest, she takes a long, shaky breath. "While most people ran to get inside as fast as they could, I was the one wandering with my face turned to the clouds. To me, rain always felt like a promise … new life tumbling out of the sky."

"The rain's still pretty muddy to spend much time staring up at the clouds, but it's warm outside, and the city smells almost clean." He leans down, inhaling the strawberry and jasmine scent of the silken strands that brush his face. "Can't possibly compare to you—how do you always manage to smell like _Ylasiun?_ —but it's a welcome dose of normal." Pulling away, he nods toward the double doors. "Come on. I promise what awaits you at the end of our journey will prove well worth leaving this building." When neither arm budged in their grip, he chuckled and leaned down to nuzzle her hair. "Don't make me call Garrus to throw you over his shoulder."

A smile cracked Shepard's rigid mask. "He'd enjoy it way too much." After a moment, she nodded and pulled away, the way she braced her spine drawing him back through time to London before the battle. After saying goodbye to Garrus, she'd paused inside the door and rolled her shoulders, setting them like fortress walls.

He waits for her to set out, not wanting to press. Despite his saying it all the time, Shepard truly had earned the right to live on her own terms, even if that meant postponing their date another week or month.

Taking a step, she glances back. "Well? Coming, Primarch?" A shaky grin challenges him. "Or do turians melt in the rain?"

He steps up, wrapping a supportive arm around her waist once more. "We do melt, but only after significant exposure. I'll be fine getting to the shuttle."

Garrus opens the hospital's main door, holding it for Shepard. Stepping out into the rain, he grumbles, confirming the melting danger, but Victus can see the combination of elation and relief on the _torin's_ face when Shepard shuffles over the threshold. Victus understands. Watching Shepard take her first steps outside, on her own feet, maybe not yet whole, but … . It's like each step brings another part of her to life, and by the time the rain plasters down her hair and she's looking up into the slate sky, she's returned to them.

Victus's heart pounds hard and fast in his chest, filled with a joy so piercing it aches. She's not the woman she was, but that's neither required nor even desirable. A cool, wet hand skates along his mandible, pulling his attention to her eyes … and then her smile. Spirits, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen … her short hair transmuted into a deep copper in the downpour, her eyes sparkling, face glistening. He can't say she's beautiful despite the thick ridges of scarring that slice across every centimeter of skin, and he can't say she's beautiful because of them. She's beautiful because she's Shepard … no ... because she's Jane.

"We'd better get moving to the shuttle before the two of us melt," Garrus calls, tipping his yoke to drain the water trying to gather in it. "Or I drown."

Shepard's laugh comes as close to delight as Victus has heard in nearly a year. Her fingers wrap around his, and she draws away from his side, leading the way. She leans heavily on her cane, but seems to have forgotten everything but the joy and the promise of the rain on her face.

Victus thinks it might just be one of his best days in many cycles.

* * *

The shuttle touches down, Shepard craning her head trying to see outside the shuttle. "Why are all the ports shaded?" She pouts a little and slams her arms down across her chest as she slumps in her seat.

Victus just chuckles and shakes his head. "Pouting won't get you anywhere. It wouldn't be much of a surprise date if you could see where we were." He stands, reaching for the hatch control, hoping the preparations he's made remain intact. When the door opens, a long sigh of relief whistles through his nose, making Shepard chuckle. The tent stands, the canvas gleaming purple in the sunset. Turning back to face her, he holds out his hand.

"Oh, I can see now?" she says, then sticks her nose in the air and turns her head away. "No, I don't think I want to, now."

He crosses the hold in two strides, sweeping her up in his arms, eliciting a startled squeal and then a laugh as her arms wrap around his neck.

"Hey! Hands off, buster! This is assault of an Alliance officer. You could be court-martialed for this." None of the bluster in her voice makes it to her eyes, which stare into his, sparkling like the first stars of the evening.

"Finally! It works to my advantage to be outside your chain of command. After all the times you pulled the no-Alliance-rank card with me." His mandibles flick hard, a cocky grin accompanying the arch of his neck. Nodding toward the hatch, he says, "I went through a little—just the tiniest—amount of trouble to make sure our date was … well … at least, okay."

A sharp laugh answered that. "Didn't want to set the bar too high?"

Letting out a chuff, he shakes his head then carries her to the hatch and out into the crisp, alpine air. "Of course not, if I went crazy on this date, imagine the madness I'd have to dream up for the second … and then the third?" Shuddering, he grins again. "No, best to start modest: just good enough to get by without disappointing."

He stops at the edge of the high mountain glade and lowers her to stand on her own, the grass already slick with dew. Instead of studying the sunset, he watches her as she turns to look out over the mountains, the entire vista unspoiled by even the slightest sign of war.

"Oh my god, Adrien." Her gasp alone makes the last four days of preparation worth every second. She draws in a deep breath, and he mirrors her, the air so clean and crisp that it burns through his nostrils and into his head after so many months of breathing the humid, smoky atmosphere of London. She looks up at him, turning in the circle of his arm, and wraps both of hers around him.

"Where are we?" Hugging against him, she turns back to the sunset, the orb glowing a bright peach over the peaks on the far side of the lake. Her cheek rests against his chest, the moment so perfect that he holds his breath, afraid to shatter it. A hard lump chokes him, making it impossible to talk even if he wanted to. For those moments, he just nuzzles the short, silky brush that covers her head, breathing her in, savouring the pressure of her arms around him, the warmth of her body pressed against his.

"Adrien?"

He lets out the held breath, the words following along behind. "It's called Lake Lucerne. We're in … Switzerland?" He glances over at Vakarian, who's standing next to the shuttle. When the other _torin_ nods, Victus hums softly. "Yeah, Switzerland." He holds her snuggly, one hand wandering along the ridge of her spine—she's far too thin.

"So, this is just the okay date, then?" She pulls back and lets out a soft, contented sound as she looks up into his eyes, then glances toward the tent and back. "Guess I can look forward to Mars or something for the second, then." Leaning up a little, she tilts her head, her gaze slipping down to his mouth.

Heart pounding, he leans in to brush his mouth against her lips, testing the waters a little. Shepard moves right in, lips eager as they move over his mouth. Then he feels a moist flick against the groove in his upper mouth plate. He pulls back a little so that he can focus on her eyes.

Shepard grins. "Never kissed anyone with tongue, huh, Primarch?" Reaching up, she brushes the pad of her thumb over the same spot. Her teeth trap her bottom lip between them, the expression beguiling in a way that shortens his breath to shallow gasps. "Gross?" she asks, pulling him back, her one brow lifting.

As he takes a long, shaky breath, all he can do by way of answer is shake his head. then their mouths press together once more, and when her tongue traces the ridge of his mouth, his meets it. Moving quickly from careful, ginger touches to deeper exploration, Victus dives into the taste of her, the way the sensation of her tongue against his loosens his plates.

The feeling takes him by surprise. Dear spirits, has it been so long since his body felt desire for another? Burying himself in work, he's taken care of his needs perfunctorily, quickly done, usually in the shower. But that tongue … blessed spirits, that tongue … he wants to feel it caress every centimetre of his body.

"So," she whispers against his mouth, "was this the whole plan? Bring me somewhere spectacular and make out?"

He sucks in a quick breathe, her absence like the vacuum of space, pulling him back in. Heat flushes beneath his plates at the breathiness of his voice when he answers, "There's food and a fire … but I'm liking the making out part."

She grins and kisses him, no tongue, just a quick press of lips, slight suction tugging at his mouth. "Trust me, making out next to a roaring fire … even better."

He pulls away, quick enough to draw a startled laugh from her, and glances over his shoulder. "I think we're okay, Garrus. We'll call when we need to be picked up."

Shepard pulls away and, leaning heavily on her cane, takes slow, lurching steps toward the tent, grinning when she sees the table and low couches set up inside. "Candles? The fanciest dinnerware the military has to offer … why Primarch Victus, you old smoothy." She sat and grinned up at him.

Lighting the candles, he shrugs, a little self-conscious all of the sudden. "I haven't courted anyone in a very long time."

She reaches up, grabbing the front of his tunic, and pulls him down to kiss him. "Well, you're very good at it. This date … well worth the wait and then some."

Later, as they sit next to the roaring bonfire, holding one another, their mouths learning to dance in harmony, he whispers, "You were so right about the fire." She just grins and nods before moving back in, and he knows that today is his very best day in a very, very long time.

* * *

"It's good to see you up and about," a jovial voice calls from the physiotherapy room door.

Victus's teeth grind, the man's appearance setting them on edge. He's been awaiting this visit. Awaiting and dreading it. He keeps his focus on Shepard who perks up a little, working her way down the bar with enough aplomb that Victus knows she's showing off. He smiles despite himself: she deserves to feel some pride in how far she's come.

When she reaches the end of the bars, Shepard turns to look at Admiral Hackett, a bright smile greeting him. "Well, hello there, sir. Come on in. Mi torture chamber es su torture chamber."

Hackett enters, his hands reaching out for Shepard's even as he crosses the floor. Victus slips a supportive arm around her waist so she can release the bar and shake hands. "Your doctors say you're going great guns on your rehab." He smiles and nods at Victus, offering a hand to clasp wrists. "Primarch," he says by way of greeting. The primarch answers with a nod.

"So, Shepard." Hackett's grin widens. He lays a hand on her shoulder. "I can't believe how great you look. You had us all scared." Letting out a sharp laugh he shrugged. "Well, except for the primarch and Vakarian. They seemed to know something the rest of us didn't."

Shepard smiles up into his eyes and wraps an arm around his waist. "Yeah, I don't know where I'd be without them."

Nodding toward the chairs around the perimeter of the room, Hackett drops the cheeriness down to about twenty percent. Here it comes. Shepard's time of rest is over. "Can we sit and talk for a few minutes?" the admiral asks.

"Sure," Shepard releases Victus and grasps the bars, making her way as far as she can before waiting for him to help her into her chair. When the primarch bends over her, settling her feet on the pads and helping her shift back further in the seat, Shepard wraps her arms around his neck, leaning closer than necessary to press a soft kiss against the far side of his face.

"Stop growling at him," she whispers, too low for Hackett to hear. "I'm okay."

Victus jerks back. Has he been rumbling warnings through his subvocals? His question must show in his eyes because she smiles, nods, and then winks before turning to face Hackett.

"Should have known this wasn't a social visit, Admiral," she says, humour dulling the edge of her words. "Got some dry cleaning you need picked up? Your poodle need walking? No, wait … one of councillor's kids is having a birthday party and you need a clown?"

Hackett's smile freezes a little, but he nods. "I've earned that, and I know how much I owe you, Shepard … how much we all owe you." He lets out a longs sigh and leans back, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his trousers. "It doesn't change anything, but I want you to know that I recognize how one-sided the tally chart is."

"But you're still here to ask her to do something for you," Victus blurts before he can bite down on the words. He rumbles an apology to Shepard when she flashes him an exasperated grin. Her fingers wrap around his talons, a warm plea for patience and forbearance. He leans down to nuzzle her brow, then pulls a chair around to sit next to her.

"I am." Hackett's shoulders lift in a defeated sort of shrug. "Fact is, you're a symbol, Shepard. Everyone knows you went up there and that you killed them. The entire planet and the fleets heard your message to the primarch, so … in a way you've both become a symbol of hope … of life coming out of the hell we survived."

Hackett leans forward, forearms bracing against his knees and clasps his hands between them. Conviction and desperation stare at them from his eyes. "Hope is something in seriously short supply, and you both know how desperate and violent people can become without it. Despite trying to get the news out, most people don't believe that you survived." Pushing up, he stiffens, abandoning casual for military lines. "As the sole symbol of hope in a galaxy lying in ruins, we need them to believe … in anything until we can get basics like clean water and food—concrete signs of recovery and survival—to them."

"So you want me to be visible?" Shepard replies. She leans into Victus, her hand sneaking between his arm and body then along his forearm. He knows how much she dreads going out into public. She hides her scars in a safe world of the same few medical personnel and old friends. It's a small world, but she's not ready for anything larger, and he'll never push. Her hand tightens on his arm. "You want both of us to be visible."

"Yes," Hackett says, and Victus gives him credit for keeping it simple and to the point, at least. The admiral looks back and forth between them for a second, then stands.

Shepard looks at him, then nods. "Let us talk about it?" she asks. It's more than Victus thought she'd give him. Then, suddenly her gaze turns distant, as if she's staring a thousand light years past him. After a second, she turns to Hackett. "Did Bailey survive the Crucible?"

Victus turns in his chair, reaching up to brush her chin with the backs of his talons. "He died defending the docks," he tells her, then asks, "but did you just remember something more?" Hope sparks in his gut at the sudden animation behind her eyes.

"Yeah." She turns a smile to Hackett. "After the Cerberus coup, Bailey and I spent nights over the QEC developing shelters inside the infrastructure of the Citadel, like way down in deep where we had solid bulkheads and the ability to funnel the enemy into a bottleneck and then take them out with overhead mounted rail guns."

The admiral folds back onto his chair and nods toward Victus. "Yes, the search teams found one. Those supplies have been a lifesaver." He shifts, the chair creaking beneath his weight.

"I gave him everything I had in my accounts to buy supplies and do what construction was needed." She shrugs. "I don't know if they had time to evacuate anyone. All those supplies might still be there."

Hackett reaches out, taking her hand in both of his. "Thank you, Shepard." A noisy breath ... a bracing sort of breath … announces his request before he makes it. "Will you fly up there with us tomorrow to look?"

Her grip on Victus's arm tightens, and when he turns his attention back to her, he can see the debate going on behind her eyes. When it slows, she looks to him. "Will you go with me?"

"Anywhere." And in that moment, he means it with every cell of his being. If she asked him to resign as primarch and move to that meadow where they'd spent the evening before, the hierarchy would have to scramble for a replacement. Of course, she'd never ask that. He brushes her chin once more, speaking to Hackett, but never looking away from Jane's eyes. "We'll work out the details once we have time to think it all over and send you what we'll need."

Hackett stands again. "Thank you, both. I look forward to getting your message."

"Admiral," they reply in concert, neither breaking the connection, amber eyes gazing into emerald.

"Guess I should do some more laps, huh?" she says. "You know, if I'm going to be doing the Victus/Shepard good will tour." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leans in, brushing the end of his nose with a kiss. "Help a girl to her parallel bars, Primarch?"

Victus nods and helps her stand, but he knows he's just watched the last of their private, halcyon days walk out the door. Reality has insisted Shepard rejoin it, and the hierarchy won't be far behind.


	15. Chapter Fifteen -- The Last Halcyon Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despair flares, licking at the anger, freezing it into a gelid ooze. Tomorrow. Tarc. How will he turn away from Shepard, board her ship, and leave her behind?

**Precorin** \- (turian) Damned, cursed.

**Tarc** \- (turian) Shit.

Victus jumps down off the shuttle, wincing a little when the woman cradled in his arms grunts in pain. Guilt riddles him like pipe bomb shrapnel. He allowed her to go. He allowed her to reassure him when he clearly saw her weariness. No longer. She doesn't get to kill herself due to misplaced guilt. And Hackett can take his goodwill missions and shove them—

"Adrien, put me down." Shepard reaches up to brush his mandible with gentle fingers. He suppresses a shudder at the chill bleeding through her skin. "I'm okay. I pushed myself too hard, but I'm okay."

He simply shakes his head, unable to explain the panic he felt when she collapsed at the Alliance base in Moscow, not without his voice locking up or dissolving into anger. Both she and Hackett deserve that anger, but unleashing it won't help. And worse, he understands why she pushes herself so hard. He feels the same need that drives her. How can they not demand everything from themselves when looking out at the shattered remains of their galaxy?

Despite her protests, he carries her to the hospital door, letting her down once staff looks on. Even so, he keeps an arm wrapped tight around her, a precaution she meets with a smile. When she leans into his strength rather than arguing about his overprotectiveness, he pulls her in, savouring the softness of her waist in the bow of his arm. As much time as they've spent together over the week, it's all been publicity and rushing from here to there: rallies, meetings, hotels, and shuttles. He can count the touches and minutes spent alone on his talons.

As soon as they enter her room, Shepard faces the waiting contingent of Chakwas and Lawson, seeming as annoyed to see them as he is relieved. "I don't need to be poked and prodded," she says. "I just let them set too busy a schedule." She pulls away from him, cane almost forgotten as she walks to one of the armchairs and sits. "Lesson learned. No more nine countries in a week tours. Check."

Sighing, Victus crouches in front of her, aware of the two women closing in on him from behind. "Jane, please, just listen to them." He reaches up, brushing a gentle hand over her cheek, the healing skin still too sensitive to do much more than ghost past it. "I know you want to get back to 100% right away, but—"

"It's simply impossible, Commander," Lawson speaks up, her patience for the gentle route clearly lacking. "Your organs shut down twenty four times over the course of more than a week. A good portion of them remains necrotic. Your body is actively trying to kill you." Shaking her head, she runs a hand over her brow to brush back her hair. "We're trying to restore function to organs that are essentially dead. Without proper cloning facilities, it's a battle that means you need to rest and stay close to this hospital."

Chakwas clears her throat, a hand on Lawson's arm backing the operative away. "If we'd known the extent of Hackett's tour, we wouldn't have agreed to it. Shepard."

Shepard shrugs, petulant in the face of the unified wall of disapproval. "After the Citadel, I felt fine, so I agreed when he suggested extending it." Her brow furrows into a mass of lines, the new skin glistening a little. "I'm not a prisoner here."

Chakwas sits on the edge of the bed, facing her friend and commander. "Of course you aren't, dear friend, but you remain gravely ill. You just can't leave for so many days."

Victus swallows the aftertaste of the six arguments he suffered through with Shepard. Each evening, when she agreed to extend the tour another day, he'd pleaded with her to return even just for a few days. Stubbornly, almost as if she believed her days numbered and she wished to get the most out of them, she refused. No amount of reason nor application of emotion moved her to change her mind.

"What about shipping out with the Normandy?" she asks, flipping from pouting to fear. Her stare darts between their faces. "I'll be able to ship out with her, right? We have the med bay."

Chakwas shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but there just aren't the resources or back ups on the ship. We have no relays to rush you to a hospital if something fails, and no access to donor tissue." The doctor shrugs, a helpless gesture that sends Victus's heart diving into his boots. "I'm sorry, but Kaidan will have to remain in command of the _Normandy_ until you're completely fit for duty."

"I don't want to take back command," she says, her voice barely audible. Her gaze flits to Victus's eyes, darting away before he can capture it. "I just don't want to be left …." A clearing rumble rolls from her throat, cutting off her words, and she locks on Chakwas. "So I survived the war to be trapped in a hospital for the rest of my life?"

After a moment, she focuses on him, her stare intense, burning through plate and bone. Is it accusation for insisting on saving her? Disappointment? Victus's guilt and love and sorrow clouds his eyes, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't identify her emotion through his own.

"Just for now," Chakwas says, her tone professional but soothing. "When your organs are completely regenerated and the treatments are complete, you'll be able to go wherever you like." Reaching out, she grasps Shepard's shoulders, drawing the commander's stare back to her face. "Isn't it worth a year or so?"

A year. His heart stops beating as it hits bottom.

"A year?" Shepard's tone gives voice to his despair as she pushes away from them, the chair screeching across the tile. "But …." She stands, taking the stride to close on Victus. Her stare says everything that neither one of them can put words to. Victus tries but the _precorin_ words stick in his throat, barbed and poisonous.

He'll need to return to Palaven long before that: he has weeks at most. He's been hoping to spend long, quiet nights in the space under the stairs on the engineering deck as they did before. A faint hope has grown—somewhere in the deepest parts of himself, the ones he doesn't look at too closely ... keeping them buried beneath duty and work—that the months shared in that narrow, metal skin might lead to sharing her cabin.

Now, the harsh truth hooks him by the spur, dragging him into the harsh, searing light of reality. _Tarc._ Those faulty spectacles Shepard accuses him of wearing have kept him from looking ahead. Even if she could resume command of the _Normandy,_ even if they travelled back to Palaven together … then what? How much time would they have together with the galaxy tugging them toward their respective homeworlds?

"Up you get," Chakwas orders, startling him. She nods toward the bed. "You collapsed for a reason. We need to run scans." Stepping out of the way, she gestures to Miranda. "We'll leave you to change and get settled."

Shepard stares up at Victus, unmoving when the ladies leave the room. Her mouth works for a moment without producing any sound, then she steps into him, her arms slipping around his waist, clinging tight.

"It'll all work out, Jane," he promises, the words slick with the knowledge they may well make him a liar. "The most important thing is getting you healthy." A soft chuff escapes on an exhaled breath. "We've got the rest of our lives. We just need to be patient for a little while."

She makes a gross, inelegant sound and jerks free of his arms. "Patience is easy when you're not the one chained to the hospital for a year." Turning away, she strides to the bed and pounds a fist against the mattress.

Victus leaps after her and turns her to face him, his hands cupping her face, forgetting the delicacy of her skin. Staring into her bloodshot, glistening eyes, he shakes his head. "No, it really isn't. I love you. I don't want to leave you here, not even for a day let alone a year, but I can't spend months on end worrying that my selfishness is endangering your life. I have to find enough patience to do what is best for you." Leaning in, he touches his brow to hers. "And you have to find enough to stay and recover fully. We'll find a way to work it all out."

_Even though it will kill me to leave you behind._

* * *

**Pridaman(i)** \- The primarch's bond-mate.

**Spurin** \- (plural: spurin) Equivalent of bastard, but in the sense of an unpleasant and despicable person rather than the sense of being of illegitimate birth.

**Licisin** \- Equivalent of sons of bitches. **Licisi** \- Son of a bitch

**Stulti mendur** \- Literal: foolish lies. Vernacular: Bullshit. Short form: Stulti

**Tarc** \- Shit

**Targismar** \- The most vile curse in the turian language. Has its origins in turian prehistoric rituals involving the disgracing and execution of enemies. The shortened **Targis** is used most often.

**Pahir** \- Son

**Derra** \- Wife. Female bond-mate.

"Primarch Victus," Commodus says, his derision so thick that it tears through Victus's plates like jagged talons, "I assure you that while the humans may be eager to embrace the turian empire's primarch as their hero's consort, the turian people will never accept that used up fragment of a soldier as their _pridamani_."

Victus lunges at the projection, fury leaping at his wall of professional control, flames roaring up the fragile barrier. "Watch the way you speak about the woman to whom you owe your life, Commodus." Transmuting the flame to ice, he locks down the anger, letting it simmer deep in his gut. He's the primarch, not a teenager defending his girlfriend from a bully. "And you will address me with the proper respect, or I'll ensure that you spend the rest of your days scrubbing out livestock containers." He straightens to attention, hands clasped behind his back, face set in stone. "The primarch does not serve your whims."

"No, he serves the turian people, and they expect their primarch to be on turian soil, seeing to their needs." The Hierarch of the Tier of Generals performs a rigid salute. "Admiral Hackett has assured the hierarchy that the _Normandy_ can be ready to escort you home tomorrow. We look forward to your return. Safe journey."

After closing the channel, Victus leans against the console, the rage floundering once that pompous _spurin's_ image disappears. It's not like he hasn't felt that moment closing in on him for months. He thought the goodwill tour might soften up his opposition back home, but it appears to have achieved the exact opposite.

Despair flares, licking at the anger, freezing it into a gelid ooze. Tomorrow. _Tarc._ How will he turn away from Shepard, board her ship, and leave her behind? Without the relays, they'll have nothing but the QEC to communicate.

"So, tomorrow."

He spins at that soft voice from the door. "Jane." He smiles and strides over to take her hands. She squeezes his for a second then pulls away, yanking words from his throat to fill the space. "You overheard that conversation?"

Shaking her head, she backs up a step, her cane clacking as she stumbles a little before catching herself. "Just the part about the _Normandy_ taking you home tomorrow." She smiles, but it's wooden and forced. "It's good," she says, despite both of them knowing they're a lie. "You're doing a lot of good work, even from here, but your people need to see their leader on home soil." Backing up another step, she shrugs and says, "It's not like we didn't know this day was coming, right? We've been lucky to have as long as we …." She swallows hard and nods. After another second, she nods again, this time tipping her head toward the hospital. "I'd better get to physio before they come looking for me."

"I'll come help," he offers, feeling something fragile and precious balanced between them, teetering on the verge of shattering. Judging by the pain behind his keel, it's his heart.

"No, it's fine." The quaver in her voice says that it's anything but fine. "You go tell Terion and Ralayis. And, you'll need to pack." She backs up a step, balancing herself with a visible effort. "I'll see you tonight. I'm sure once Hackett knows, he'll want to host a formal thank you dinner or something." She turns and walks toward the side door, moving quickly.

Victus stares after her, all the indignation and fury he'd felt facing Commodus returning to a rolling boil. He aches to call after Shepard, to ask if she overheard what that _licisi_ said about her. He sighs and holds his silence. If she didn't hear that _spurin's_ remarks, she'll ask questions, and he'll be six klicks down into the ninth ring of _buratrum_ before he exposes her to that _stulti_.

_Targismar_! Curse her and her damned stiff-lipped refusal to demand anything of him. Why can't she rage and demand that he place her needs ahead of everyone else? Just once? And curse him and his damned duty. Why can't he just throw it aside once in his life to do what his heart demands? He's already lost a _pahir_ that he should have been a real _patrem_ to … a _derra_ he should have been there for long before she passed. He swallows a sharp keen as the door closes behind her.

Curse her for being right. Turning his fury loose, he kicks the QEC console, one sharp, painful kick. Then he clenches his jaw and takes long breaths, pulling it all back in. He needs to look after his people. As much as Shepard needs him and he needs her, they are two people compared to millions. Squaring his shoulders, he braces his shoulders against the load, and turns away from love to march toward duty. Always marching toward duty.

Spirits, how he hates it.

* * *

Hackett holds a formal thank you and farewell dinner as Shepard guessed. Trapped at the head table, formality and the constant chatter from the salarian councilor on his left keep Victus from being able to do more than ask Shepard to pass the disgusting meat gruel pellets. She gives him a tight-lipped smile and a nod as she passes the bowl, but doesn't rise to the old joke.

Fear settles in behind his keel, chill and intractable. She's distancing herself. Not that he blames her, but spirits, she has to know that he wants her with him as soon as she can travel. Doesn't she?

He turns away from Valern's constant babble—they cannot get a galactic senate set up fast enough—and leans in toward Shepard. "Jane …."

She shakes her head. "Not the time or place."

_Targis!_ Of course it's not the time or place, but both are running out far too quickly, each second stabbing a little bit deeper than the one before. "Jane—"

Hackett calls her polite, rigid attention to her other side. "Are you ready?" the admiral asks.

"No." Her reply wipes the smile off Hackett's face. She sighs and shakes her head. "I'll stand up and thank you for the honour, and dance like your dutiful little puppet." Her whisper cuts deep enough that Hackett's face turns a bright red. "I'll do my duty, because that's what remains, right? It's not enough to save all this bullshit; I've got to sing and dance and help rebuild it all too."

Under the table, Victus slides his hand into hers, squeezing her fingers tight. _Tarc_ , what does Hackett want from her? Or is she furious about his choices … his duty? She returns the squeeze for a second, then tugs her hand from his grip as Hackett stands.

"We wouldn't be here tonight," the admiral begins, "without the heroism of a great many people."

Shepard makes such an angry sound at the word heroism, that he blocks Hackett out completely, staring at the woman he loves, watching the subtle movements of muscle under skin. It's clear what she thinks despite the schooled neutrality of her expression, tiny twitches here and there give away her disgust and contempt. She's done. That much screams from her every pore.

He's assumed that she'd want to come with him to Palaven if she could … that they'd be together, but the expression on her face …. That heartbreaking expression says that she wants nothing to do with any of it … no more military, no more politics. He pulls his mandibles in tight against his face to keep them from quivering, the pressure of his heart slamming against his keel so heavy that he feels as if his ribcage is going to explode all over the remnants of their meal. He's never considered that she might say no.

"Thank you, Admiral Hackett … " Shepard says as she stands. Her fingertips press to the table, helping with her balance. As she moves, she stirs the air with her perfect scent, and for a moment, it's all he can do to stay in his seat. The pain slicing his guts into _sorbicum_ insists that he run. Too bad he's never been good at running. "... esteemed council members." Her rigid face softens as she smiles down on her crew at the front-center table. "Beloved friends and family." She sniffs a little, her throat working. "I didn't ask for the job of defeating the Reapers or uniting the galaxy. An old friend asked me to be his XO on a simple pickup mission to test out his new ship and then all hell broke loose."

Victus leans forward, arms braced on the table, eyes riveted to her with no care as to who might be watching. A soft keen escapes as he swallows; let them see how much he adores their hero. He gets the feeling his moments of being in the same room with her are coming to an end … _dear, fucking spirits_ … forever.

He only just manages to keep the tears as a burning ache at the corners of his eyes, his keens subvocal. Only his _pahir_ and Vakarian are close enough to hear that he's already begun to mourn her absence, and he doesn't care. He's loved like this only once before, and he lost her as well. He wants to stand and scream at the unfairness of the universe. Why did the damned hierarchy have to pick him? Why can't his—

"I faced a lot of disbelief and ridicule in the years I fought to prepare the galaxy for the Reapers' arrival." Shepard turns to look at the council, focusing in on Tevos and Valern as she continues, "You said you needed to look out for your own, kept valuable intel to yourselves, and told me that since I was trying the impossible, I was on my own." She looks down at him, her eyes ablaze with love, and anger, and a sadness so deep it pulls a long keen from him. "Except for one leader. One _torin_ had the guts to stop covering his own ass and dig into the fight. He helped me bring in the krogan and started the entire ball rolling."

His fury burns out as he stares into that piercing emerald. Spirits, how is he going to breathe when he gets on the _Normandy_ the next morning? His heart beats maybe ten times while their eyes remained locked on one another, it seems painfully long … an endless agony ... because he knows that she's saying goodbye.

Her attention turns back to the assembled crowd. "The rest of you cowards only joined in when the Reapers started smashing in your doors." She holds the velvet box of medals up. "And this is the worst form of hypocrisy that I have ever witnessed. I'll keep them because they might be worth something, someday." Pointing to her crew, she smiles. "But you guys … you beautiful lunatics who followed me and believed in me from the beginning … you keep your medals. You deserve them." She picks up her glass of champagne and toasts the table. "You're the heroes of the Reaper War."

"Even me?" The bellow comes from Urdnot Wrex, and it pulls a bright, genuine laugh from the entire room, but most importantly, Shepard.

"Especially you, Uncle Urdnot." She sips her champagne, then sets the glass down to blow Wrex a kiss. "And you … " Her gaze glides over to lock onto Vakarian. "... always, you." She blows another kiss, then turns to face Victus, bending to kiss him full and hard on the mouth.

The room dissolves into merry cacophony, the _Normandy_ contingent leaping to their feet and pounding fists against their table.

"Best. Speech. Ever," Joker says, his voice a merry howl.

"I hope someone recorded that kiss," Shepard whispers against Victus's mouth plates. "They can email it to Commodus with the message. 'Fuck you, love Shepard'." She kisses him again, then grabs her cane, making a halting, but glorious exit.

Victus leaps up to follow, but the _Normandy_ crew's reaction to her speech seems to signal to the entire banquet that the formal portion of the evening is over, and he's besieged by people wanting to speak to him. It takes nearly two hours to escape the hall, his sudden popularity requiring a stop in his quarters to put on a cowl to hide his face before he heads into the hospital. At least there, the staff respected their privacy, but with that kiss and Shepard's speech … privacy has gone the way of the Reapers.

His mandibles flick as Shepard's message to Commodus burns against his mouth plates. He's fairly certain that message will be received and not at all appreciated. Not that he cares in the slightest. Yes, he has plans to help the turian empire and the galaxy recover, and yes, he wants to see them through. He knows he can help his people; he knows he can build the galaxy into something better. But, if they kick him out, he's more than happy to hole up somewhere quiet with his Jane. It's not a fate to inspire dread. In fact, it looks better and better all the time.

Shepard's room in the hospital sits empty, so he heads out to search the docks and riverbank. He's past the docks, into the almost-dark of the park area along the river when he hears:

"I can't believe you'd embarrass the Alliance and the council that way, Shepard." It's Hackett, and for a second, Victus almost rushes in. But no, it's Shepard's stand to take, not his, so he lurks and listens.

"It was an honest speech, Steven, and the truth." Shepard lets out a low, growling sound that makes him wonder how much of the turian subvocal range has rubbed off on her over the years. "And don't you dare mount that high horse of yours. You sent me to Aratoht alone to break out your friend, and then fed me to the wolves when I had to make the best out of that disaster. If I'd had a team, I could have gotten all those batarians out, but no, I had to sacrifice 300,000 people because you were afraid the batarians would kill your friend." Another soft, angry sound rumbles through the darkness. "Consider tonight my resignation. I'm done leaping through Alliance and council hoops." A low chuckle softens her words as she says, "Pull your hand out of my ass, puppet master, the show's over."

Victus closes his eyes, letting the bright glow of pride and awe grow in his chest. He didn't know if she'd stand up to the Alliance. Again, he registers the naive error of not talking about what comes next. He should have spent every day since she woke up telling her that he wants her to come with him to Palaven. And now it's all but too late.

"Shepard, please reconsider." Hackett sounds regretful rather than angry in the face of her ire. "You can help Earth and the Alliance tremendously as we recover."

"If you tell me that I'm an important symbol one more time …." A very turian chuff breaks the gentle music of the river. "I don't owe anyone anything. I've died three times, been dragged back three times, and kept serving the Alliance and Earth each time. I'm saying enough, Steven, and I refuse to let you make me feel like an ungrateful bitch because I want a life of peace." Victus hears what he thinks is a back-slapping hug, then Hackett strides by, so intent in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Victus in the shadows.

"You can come out now," Jane calls, pulling Victus out of the darkness. He climbs the slight embankment, stopping a couple of metres away.

Victus drinks her in, imprinting her image in his memory. She's beautiful, the long, sleek lines of her dress accenting her body perfectly, her skin glowing in the faint light of the docks. Whatever she's decided, he needs to talk her out of it. Stepping forward, he asks, "How did you know I was there?"

The sharp hiccup of a sob accompanies her smile. "I can always feel you when you're close." Rubbing her lips together, she presses them tight when they begin to tremble. She holds out one arm, and he hurries to her, pulling her in tight against his body.

Victus buries his face in the curve of her neck, not caring about the soft cries that accompany his words. His heart cracks a little more with every, agonizing beat, his soul bleeding through the fissures. "Why do I feel like you're saying goodbye, Jane?"

She just shakes her head and clings to him. After a few moments, they move to one of the picnic benches. He sits astride it so he can cradle her in against him.

"Commodus called me as well," she whispers after more than a half hour. "He assures me that if I don't distance myself from you, you'll be deposed as primarch and disgraced."

"Jane—"

She shakes her head, cutting him off. "He showed me proof: affidavits from enough hierarchs to convince me." Pulling away, she meets his eyes, her hands gentle and loving on his face. "Your people need you, and you need them." Tears rain down her cheeks, desolate jewels sparkling in the dark. "Let's just call this what it is, Adrien, a dream that was really beautiful while it lasted."

"No." He coughs, choking on his own saliva as he fights back a keen. "No. As soon as you're able, I want you with me. I don't care if they depose me, Jane. If they're that close-minded and bigoted, they're not a people I want to lead. That's not the people I've given my life to serve."

She leans in to kiss him, then whispers against his mouth, "That would be fine for awhile, but you're built to serve. You're wired to be primarch, no matter what you say. You'd grow to resent what happened, and then me." She silences him with another kiss. "I'd rather be a pleasant memory than the wall that stands between you and the life you need to live."

She sighs and melts into him, resting her head beneath his chin. "It has been a very beautiful dream."

Fighting down the storm of panic thundering on the horizon, Victus shakes his head, pressing her soft, slight frame against his. "Please, just give me a chance to get home, see what's going on," he says, his words little more than breaths in her the short stubble of her hair. "Let me change their minds."

She nods, but doesn't speak. The night grows chill, but neither of them move. Instead, he calls Terion to bring blankets, and they sit out, watching the night pass, speaking little as they cling to the dream as long as they can.


	16. Chapter Sixteen -- Searching for Home Through the Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She presses a small, wrapped package into his hand and closes his talons around it as she says, "Go, be the sort of primarch they still compare everyone to in a thousand years." She squeezes his hand and limps away from the Normandy's ramp, canes carefully navigating the mud. "Good luck, Primarch Victus.

**Puer** \- Puerin plural. Child. **Pueriti** \- Baby / infant under the age of 1

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form **Pari** equivalent to dad)

 **Matrula** \- Mother (Familiar form **Mari** equivalent to mom)

 **Pahir** \- Son

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

The air aboard the _Normandy_ remains unchanged. Ozone and the indescribable scent of the air filters still bite at the inside of his nostrils. The sounds also ring true: the thrum and throb of engines, the beep of consoles, the soft murmur of professionally-toned voices. Most of the faces strike chords of recognition, but as he walks the decks, the ship feels empty … desolate … a lone flagpole rag above a field of the dead. A body that has walked away without its heart.

Victus nods to Specialist Traynor as he strides around the holo-projector, the war room so unchanged that he glances toward Shepard's station. He expects to see her there, short red hair mussed from her raking her fingers through it, face lined and knotted with concentration and worry. Being aboard the _Normandy_ feels like travelling back in time, the reapers suddenly springing back to life, the war raging around the insulated cocoon of her frigate.

Then her solemn, dry-eyed face appears before his eyes, her jaw clenched so tight that it has to hurt. _She presses a small, wrapped package into his hand and closes his talons around it as she says,_ " _Go, be the sort of primarch they still compare everyone to in a thousand years." She squeezes his hand and limps away from the_ Normandy's _ramp, canes carefully navigating the mud. "Good luck, Primarch Victus."_

" _I'll call tonight," he promises as he backs up the ramp. "Tomorrow at the latest." The starched smile and nod that answers him nearly doubles him over ... a punch to the gut ... and he wishes that he could race down the ramp, wrap his arms around her and kiss her. But the council stands off to one side, Hackett and the new Alliance government to the other, so he turns, back straight, shoulders square, and marches up the ramp._

"The QEC is connected to Alliance HQ in London, Primarch," Traynor tells him. "Admiral Hackett is standing by."

Victus half-turns, a brow plate lunging toward his crest. "Hackett? Not Shepard?" Confusion turns to dread, very real threads of fear weaving through it.

The comm specialist shrugs, her expression apologetic. "It's Hackett."

Taking a deep breath, he gives Traynor a stoic nod. "Thank you, Specialist." Climbing the rest of the way into the comm room, he stands in front of the console, his hands pressing against the cool surface. Why Hackett? Where is Shepard? He closes his eyes and takes a long, shaky breath. She _was_ saying goodbye the night before. _Tarc!_

No! He clenches his jaw and takes quick, harsh breaths, crushing his emotions beneath the good, stoic turian facade. Hackett doesn't get to see this part. No one gets to see how their interference has ripped his soul from his body. If she's gone, that's his … it's not theirs, no matter how culpable … no matter how much they want to claim his pain as their doing. It's his to hold as tight as he did her, as tight as she holds his heart.

Once his emotions are locked down behind the unyielding mask of primarch, he opens the channel, straightening to parade rest. "Admiral Hackett. What can I do for you?"

The man takes a long breath, his entire bearing and expression drawn. He looks as though he's aged a decade since 0600 that morning. He swallows a couple of times, then mirrors Victus's parade rest, the extent of his preparations sending Victus's gut tumbling. "You're aware," Hackett begins, then clears his throat, "that Shepard resigned her commission last night after the award banquet."

Victus replies only with a starched nod, allowing himself no extraneous movement. He's going to have to become adept at the blank wall of stoicism. It's not an unfamiliar wall. He lived behind it after Lanira died; he can erect it once again.

"When her new physician went into her room just after lunch, Shepard was gone." The admiral blew a long breath out his nose, seeming to deflate a little. "We searched the entire base, and our only lead is that Vakarian is gone as well. According to Miranda Lawson, she received a message from Jane saying that she will be in touch to continue treatments as long as Lawson keeps her location a secret." He opens his mouth, but closes it before saying anything and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Primarch. I wish I had more information for you."

Victus just shakes his head and clears his throat. "Thank you for letting me know, Admiral. Please do keep me informed if you receive any new information." He closes the channel before Hackett can respond. He knew. She made her choice even before the banquet, made it before Commodus contacted him with his ultimatum. Now, she and Vakarian have left London far behind. They'll disappear somewhere with decent medical care and no questions.

Spinning on his heel, he marches down the stairs, past the sideways glances of the crew, past even the door to his stateroom, not even truly aware of where he's going until he finds himself in the space under the stairs on the engineering deck. After a few seconds of staring at the cot—the blanket still mussed, a half-empty bottle of liquor stuck between crates—he walks over and sits down.

Despair turns to fury in that sheltered space where they shared liquor and their souls. He picks up the bottle, stares into its amber depths for a few moments before he unscrews the cap and upends it, pouring a good talon's worth down his throat. The burn feels like empty tears and long, lonely nights. He chokes on it and replaces the cap.

Lifting the colourful blanket from the cot, he clutches it to his face, still able to smell traces of her in the rough weave. It was one of the presents from her fans.

Gifts … dropping the blanket, he digs into his pocket and pulls out the package Shepard gave him earlier. It's small, wrapped in paper, upon which she's written, "You deserve this more than I do. Thank you for being my reason to push through and come back. I love you, always."

Unwrapping the gift with trembling, careful talons, he reveals her Star of Terra glimmering within the drab paper. Withdrawing it from its wrapping, he cradles it in his talons. It's not a medal, it's a piece of her heart … the piece won over long nights spent talking and long hours of worry at her bedside.

"I love you," he whispers to the emptiness, his voice echoing, a dry husk crushed underfoot on an airless midsummer day. "Stay safe, and when you're ready, please find me."

* * *

Six months later, when he exits the _Normandy_ , the almost-empty bottle of Canadian Whisky and knitted blanket sit nestled in his pack. Shepard's medal, however, he's pinned inside his tunic, pressed over his heart, where it'll stay. After six months of exhausting every avenue he can think of, she remains a ghostly slash carved through his spirit. He's almost gotten used to it, padding the wound with enough dressing to pretend it's healing.

Legs weary after months spent in space, he pauses at the end of the ramp, and he takes a moment to look out over the new spaceport. It's a thing of beauty, built out of Cipritine's ashes: a jewel pressed from coal. Workers hurry over the few remaining scaffolds and across still-gleaming tarmac, but no fanfare or official welcome awaits him. Thank the spirits, they listened when he said no to any ceremony around his return.

He steps down onto home soil, his legs beginning to accept the weight, his shoulders balancing the millstones: their labels—duty, service, and honour—each adding a burden he couldn't have imagined before that day on Menae. It seems a lifetime ago.

"Primarch Victus." Garrus's _patrem_ , now the Hierarch of Colonial Restoration, strides forward, both hands extended, and grips Victus just below the elbows. The _torin's_ warm smile hooks Victus by the spur, all of the primarch's rehearsed, formal, and slightly pissed off words dying in his chest. The hierarch looks past Victus. "Where are Jane and Garrus? Didn't they accompany you back?"

Victus nearly stumbles, but drags himself straight and rigid, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth grind together. "Jane was told that her presence on the turian homeworld would result in my being removed as Primarch and might even spur civil war. She was shown affidavits signed by several hierarchs as proof." He shakes his head, refusing to go deeper into that conversation until he and the advisors he trusts are able to speak privately. "She didn't allow me to convince her otherwise."

Vakarian chuffs, a fierce roar of sound. "Commodus?" He rumbles in response to Victus's nod, the subvocal carrying layers of anger and disgust. "He's spent the last several months slinking around playing for power, but I assure you, his position is the vast minority. Most of the Hierarchy has been eagerly awaiting Jane's arrival. She sacrificed everything to save our lives."

"She and Garrus disappeared the day I left Earth," Victus says, the rage in his gut reaching the boiling point. If only she'd ... . No, playing that game with himself changes nothing. "Has Commodus done anything openly traitorous?"

"No, but we've kept him busy with organizing the repatriation of the civilians on the sanctuary worlds. He is less than impressed." The delight in the hierarch's laugh helps soothe Victus's anger. The older _torin_ claps the primarch on the back. "Garrus will contact me," he says, his tone giving all the reassurances he can't speak out loud.

Nodding, Victus rolls a soft thank you in the back of his throat, cutting it off on a sharp edge. Garrus will take care of Jane—only Victus loves her as much—and when he contacts his _patrem_ , Victus will know Jane is safe.

Meanwhile, Palaven needs him. He presses his hand over the medal for a moment, then nods. Given time, the empty, howling wound behind his keel will scab over. Sometimes that knowledge is a comfort, sometimes it fills him with fear. If he stops feeling Shepard's absence …. No, he just needs to focus on bringing his people back from the brink. His people will be his salvation.

He's lying in bed the first night, his government apartment smelling of damp paint and industrial carpet, when the empty truth hits home: Shepard is gone. The sound of his breathing echoes—deafening—off the naked walls and through the barren rooms, and he realizes he's alone. Even the comfort of her ship has been stripped away, and all he can do is hope.

He doesn't sleep that night or most nights.

* * *

**Morumplacus** \- Restless spirit, undead, ghoul. From ancient turian folklore.

"Primarch?"

Victus doesn't turn toward his assistant, Ralayis, his stare wandering the scaffold-littered landscape of Cipritine. The sun sits low in the sky, the one-hundred-forty-second sunset since arriving home. A long sigh escapes before he catches it, but the chagrin he feels dissipates almost instantly. They're all the same, rain or shine: all bleached and hollow no matter how much beauty the city regains.

"You have a visitor, sir. He said his name is Commander Terion Victus?" When the primarch spins to meet the young _tarin's_ stare, Ralayis grins. "I threatened to kick him out for impersonating an officer, but he's adamant that he's Terion Victus _._ "

Instead of insisting Ralayis bring Terion in, Victus strides past his assistant, pushing into the small lobby outside his office. Sure enough—a dream made manifest—Victus's elder _pahir_ stands at parade rest just inside the outer door.

Terion. Spirits, it's been far too long since they saw one another. Hadn't he sworn to keep that distance from coming between them again? He sets his mandibles: he'll do better.

The first spark of hope he's felt in over a cycle ignites in the cavity behind his keel, the light disappearing before it can define the limits of the space. The width and depth of the emptiness startles him. He didn't notice the erosion as it happened, each day a little more hollowed out than the day before. Despair cracks the stoic primarch mask. Unable to let it shatter in public, Victus grips his _pahir's_ shoulders for only a second before he steps back and opens an arm toward his office.

"After you, Commander Victus," he says, and follows his _pahir_ into the warm, elegant space. Victus shuts the door behind them, then leans back against it, talons still wrapped around the handle. Watching his _pahir,_ he focuses his attention away from the hole at his center, the one made all the colder for Terion's warmth trickling into it.

"Nice office, Primarch." Terion wanders the space, pausing to admire the ancient, wooden desk. "I didn't think things like this would survive the war." After finishing a full round, he sits on one end of the couch, those keen eyes locking a steely stare on Victus. "You, however, look like a _morumplacus_."

Victus opens his mouth to argue, but the war has made his _pahir_ very wise, his eyes ancient-seeming and able to see into what people try to hide. Instead of declaring that he's just fine, Victus locks the door and crosses the room to sit at Terion's side. "It's been a long cycle," he says after considering his words for several seconds.

A slow nod greets that truth before his _pahir_ reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. "I hear that Commodus has been assigned to a reconstruction battalion out in the furthest colonies." Terion's warm chuckle sends a splinter-sized crack zipping up through Victus's barriers, easing back the vague, floating sensation. "Guess he knows to avoid attempted coups in the future."

"He went to all the surviving hierarchs, going as far as threatening them if they didn't condemn my relationship with Shepard." A sigh drifts from him, a feather caught in a breeze. "I couldn't let his machinations and lies go unpunished, or I'd end up facing challenges every time I put a motion before the Seat."

Victus studies Terion's face, seeing deep lines of care and weariness around his eyes. He reaches out, his talons closing over his _pahir's_ hand. "I'm not complaining, but why are you back from Oma Ker? Leave?" A deep, scolding rumble rolls under the last couple of words. "You didn't return just to check on me, did you?"

Terion turns to face Victus, his expression serious as he draws his knee up onto the cushion. "No. I came to talk to you about the future, _Pari_." He placed his hand over Victus's. "I'm going to resign from the External Forces."

A long moment of silence answers that as Victus watches the subtle change that comes over his _pahir_ at the mention of resigning. The lines that care has etched into Terion's hide ease, his mandibles relaxing a little despite the fact that he obviously worries about what Victus will think. He has nothing to worry about, as a _patrem_ , how could Victus feel anything other than love and pride.

"You've put in more than your time, and served honourably," Victus says at last, adding a subvocal of approval, and he does approve. His remaining _pahir_ deserves to be happy, and if that means leaving the military, then so be it. "What do you want to do?"

The last notes of worry drift into the conditioned office air, as Terion sighs and grins, his eyes suddenly alight with gold fireworks, his entire manner brightening. "I want to teach." The smile grows as he squeezes his _patrem's_ hand. "Out in the colonies, I just kept thinking about how we fought our way across London, every race side by side, all pulled closer than family. And then I started to worry that even with the relays repaired, we'll all cluster back with our own people, start jealously hoarding our resources as we recover, and in a decade, we'll end up right back where we were before the war, if not more strained."

The idea of his _pahir_ teaching settles into a perfectly fitted spot inside Victus's mind. He's always been the soldier who integrated new troops into his regiment, his heart kind and patient. And Palaven is short of skilled professionals. Most of the available labour force is busy rebuilding homes, farms, and industry. Schools are still a good leap from the top of his reconstruction priorities, something his academically-minded _pahir_ might just remedy.

"So, you thought we should begin fostering that cooperation before its momentum bleeds off?" Spirits, he's blessed in his sons, both are souls lit by a true dedication to service.

_You'd be so in awe of them, Lanira. I hope you and Tarquin found one another wherever you are._

A bright, energetic nod answers his question. "Starting with the young. Hire teachers from all over … asari, human, salarian … volus … even krogan." Terion grasps both of Victus's wrists. "What do you think?"

Disentangling one hand, Victus reaches out to press his palm against his _pahir's_ cheek. "It sounds like an inspired idea, Terion. I'll support you in every way I can." He manages a smile. "You can take the spare room in my apartment. It'll bring some life into the place." Pulling his _pahir_ into an embrace, he presses his brow to Terion's and lets out another sigh, that one pure relief. It'll be nice to have company, at least for a while.

… " _Want a heavy dose of bastard irony?" Shepard asks, her words slurring. "We were pacifists … mennonites. My daddy was a preacher." Her eyes settle closed. "I wanted to teach grade school in our little enclave." …._

He pushed aside the memory and nodded toward the door. "Come, we'll start the paperwork."

_Wherever you are, Jane, I hope you've found a place that brings you happiness._

* * *

**Soluvermus** \- A small (average size 8-12 cms/1-2 cms diameter), heavily armoured earthworm native to Palaven's more northern and southern regions.

Over the cycles, he's lived on tiny snippets of news despite sending out both feelers and agents to find Shepard. He rubs his burning eyes then returns his stare to the latest report. One of his agents checking in to report no leads: Shepard's vanishing act may be the most complete of all time. No doubt having the Shadow Broker in her corner helps. He's contacted Liara every month, but she artfully changes the subject to resources and intelligence vital to Palaven's recovery. Leaning back in his chair, Victus drapes an arm over his face. His eyes ache and his gut churns like a cement mill.

Knuckles rap at his door, the time and day telling him who stands on the other side. "Come in, Vakarian," he calls, equal parts excitement and fear pulling him upright in his chair. What if today is the day Shepard allows Garrus to speak about her, or he let something slip in his conversation with his _patrem_ … some hint as to their location?

As the door opens, the elder Vakarian's expression tells Victus that Garrus didn't mention anything more than that Shepard is still recovering well. As it always does, the rush of disappointment sends his talons to his computer, practically spelling out the words of his resignation before they reach the keys. He'll quit and go find her himself. Forcing them back into his lap, he watches the older _torin_ cross the room and sit.

Vakarian folds his arms over his keel. "They're both fine," he reports after a pause. The words hang suspended in the heavy air.

Pressing his hand over the solid reassurance of Shepard's medal, Victus nods. After nearly three cycles, he doesn't expect to hear that she's changed her mind and is on her way back to him. He still wishes for it, of course, but he doesn't expect it. No doubt, she's heard of Palaven's remarkable strides toward recovery and believes she made the right choice.

Victus stands and walks to the window, staring out at the galaxy's new central hub. Thanks to the Galactic Military Academy being able to provide security that Widow can't, the nearly repaired Citadel is due to arrive in orbit within the next couple hours. Palaven rises like a jewel, the bright center of the recuperating galaxy. He looks toward the cliffs and the new homes built along their steep slopes. At the base, hidden from sight, Terion's unfinished school provides a sanctuary amidst the rubble.

The view brings Victus a great deal of satisfaction, but over the long months he's also grown to resent it. Every time he enters the Chambers of the Seat and looks over the black robes of the hierarchs, it takes longer to choke down his malcontented ire. Ironic that Shepard left because she believed he'd grow to resent her, and now he resents his position because it stands between them.

Vakarian stands. "The colonial primarchs will meet us at the base of the presidium tower at 0700 Citadel time for the tour." Activating his omnitool, he studies the small display for several minutes. "It looks like a full day including lunch at the station's first school." He chuckles. "Apparently, the children have prepared quite the welcome including concerts, a science fair, and an art gallery of their special projects."

Smiling for the first time that day, Victus nods. "Sounds like it'll be the highlight of the trip. I should invite Terion. He can meet with the teachers and administrators while we spend our morning being bored senseless." He's not sure why he went immediately to bringing Terion along, but for whatever reason, his gut tells him to go in with backup, and he trusts his gut.

Vakarian closes the distance between them and lays his hand on Victus's shoulder. "Garrus sounded good, positive for the first time in a long time, and I'm sure Shepard is the reason. He's refused to talk to her about politics and hardships because her emotional state has been so fragile … " He shrugs. "... but maybe she's getting to where she's recovered enough to face the wolves."

Victus's subvocals roar beneath his words as he says, "I hate that there are still wolves she needs to face." Although Palaven proved Hierarch Vakarian correct and the vast majority of her population adores Shepard, a noisy minority considers his relationship with a human—any human—an abomination. He shakes his head. It doesn't matter. If Garrus hasn't even been relaying messages … it just doesn't matter. Nearly three cycles stretch between where they are and that last kiss goodbye.

Thrusting his chin toward the door, he swallows hard, packing thick, new dressing over the old wound before Vakarian sees it bleed. "I'll meet you at the shuttle pad in the morning." He turns back to the window rather than watching the hierarch leave.

After staring out the window without seeing the city for several minutes, he checks the time. In a few minutes, Terion will arrive with their supper. They'll eat while discussing their day and then walk home. The ritual of their lives provides him with a tremendous amount of comfort he desperately needs right now. He presses his hand over the medal.

_Spirits, she doesn't know that she's only ever one breath away in my thoughts … that I hold her next to my heart and pray for her to come home … to me._

He turns toward Terion's signature knock, grasping for the semblance of normal he's built for himself. Before they have to 'ooo' and 'ahhh' over the refurbished Citadel in the morning, he needs time to get his armour and shields back in place.

Taking a deep breath, he rolls his shoulders back. "Come."

The door opens, Terion and Marcasis pushing through the portal, wearing the wide smiles and bandying the teasing remarks of _torini_ in love. Victus closes his eyes for a moment, thanking the spirits for Marc's presence: the young warrior always pushes back the hushed ache hanging over the apartment.

" _Pari_!" Terion hurries in, a bag of takeout in his hand. "The _Normandy_ is here, and Kaidan invited us to watch the Citadel come in from the observation lounge." He thumps the food down on Victus's spotlessly clean desk. "Come eat, and then we'll head over to watch from orbit."

After embracing his _pahir_ and Marc, Victus sits behind his desk. "There's an official tour of the Citadel tomorrow," he says, digging through containers until he finds his fake _sorbicum_. For being made from _soluvermus_ , his meat gruel pellets aren't completely revolting. He just needs to forget it's made from the massive worms. "The Citadel's school is hosting a lunch. I thought you might like to come and make some contacts."

"Sure." Terion nodded, his grin mischievous, "as long as you don't make me suffer through the politicians' tour. I've been talking with the school's administrators, and I'd love to get a look at their ideas in action, especially since they're doing a similar program." He eats a couple mouthfuls of his meal, then waggles his head a little. "Sounds fun." Nudging Marc, he flicks his mandibles. "How about it? You going to come make sure my _pari_ has someone to hold his hands?"

Victus growls, low and teasing, but when Marc agrees, a wave of relief washes over the primarch, far too large for the size of the threat.

* * *

**Armiliteria** \- The most popular board game amongst turians. It can be played by any number of players, but the standard set comes with 60 tiles for two players.

The moment Victus passes through _Normandy's_ decon, some of the tension drains from his shoulders and jaw. After spending so much time aboard her, she feels more like home than Cipritine does. There, with Shepard's people, he always feels as if she's just around the corner, or up in her quarters.

"Primarch Victus." Major Alenko salutes from the head of the reception line before stepping forward to grasp Victus's wrist. "Welcome aboard. It's been too long."

Victus holds his breath, the scent of the ship sending him back nearly four cycles to the first time he boarded her. If he fills his lungs with that air after all this time, will he be able to hold the primarch mask in place long enough to get through? He should have just told Terion to go without him.

Instead, he nods and smiles. "Thank you, Major." He looks down the line of senior crew, recognizing most of them. Where he expects pain, he finds comfort in the familiar faces. He pauses to grip both of Specialist Traynor's wrists. He doesn't know if he would have arrived on Palaven sane if it wasn't for her chess and armiliteria challenges. "Good to see you again, Specialist."

Traynor squeezes his wrists, nodding formally. "And you, Primarch. I've missed having an opponent who doesn't pout and swipe the board clear when I start winning." She glances at Joker, a crooked smile tugging her lips off to one side.

"I'll have to be sure to visit more often and give you a challenge." He releases her and turns to Alenko once more. "Now, I was promised the best seats in the house."

"And you'll have them." Alenko greets Terion and Marc, then holds out an arm to usher them along the CIC.

After shaking hands all the way down the line, Victus falls in next to Dr. T'Soni, walking toward the elevator at her side. "You stayed aboard the _Normandy_ ," he said by way of opening conversation.

"Yes. At first, it allowed me a freedom of communication not available anywhere else." She shrugs, flushing a little. "But, it's home."

They walk in silence for half the length of the CIC before Dr. T'Soni stops and turns to face him. "I don't know where she is, Primarch." Her flush deepens to indigo. "She asked me not to trace her communications, and I've respected that." A shrug rolls across her slender shoulders. "As hard as it's been sometimes."

_Why has it been hard?_

A thousand more questions fight their way to the tip of his tongue, but he allows only one to slip through his clenched teeth. "She's well?"

"Her injuries have been healed for some time," the doctor replies, leaving the statement feeling as though she cut off the second half.

Studying her face to see some of what she doesn't say, he gathers that Shepard's recovery hasn't been smooth or easy. Perhaps the deeper wounds remain unhealed. He hesitates before allowing another question through. The answer might be the last thing he wants to hear.

Still, he asks, "Has she kept in contact with everyone?" Part of him hopes she has, that she hasn't completely isolated herself; part of him bleeds at the possibility he's the only one she's shut out of her life.

The asari stares into his eyes with understanding. "Face to face, Garrus contacts us. Shepard sends a text out every few—"

"Primarch? Liara?" Alenko's voice cuts her off, and he waves, calling them toward the elevator.

Victus heeds the call, but he wonders if Alenko broke in to save the Shadow Broker from his interrogation. It doesn't matter, he knows—and appreciates—that Dr. T'Soni's loyalty would have refused him any more answers.

The conversation turns to simple things. The _Normandy_ crew discusses the recovery of the various planets they've visited, and the growing momentum around forming a galactic senate to replace the council. They allow him to slip to the side and listen without participating. Gratitude lifts his mandibles into a smile as his _pahir_ and Marc keep the party light, the talk teasing. Terion made friends with many of the crew during their six month trip home. He had as well.

When they reach the observation lounge, someone passes him a glass of turian brandy, and the merry crowd sucks him in. He rekindles friendships neglected due to his intense work schedule, and even manages to trounce Traynor in a quick game of armiliteria before the relay begins to spin up, preparing for the Citadel's arrival.

He steps up to the window, standing off to one side so as to not block the view for the others, and watches the relay as it powers up, the blue-white energy crackling. The relays form the nervous system of the galaxy. Just as he takes his own nervous system for granted, at that moment, he realizes how much of the old galaxy he'd just used without giving it a second thought.

The Citadel appears, gleaming blue in the light of the relay, and a huge piece of the old galaxy slides into place in his gut. By that flickering light, he sees how dark and desperate and ugly the galaxy has felt; war's pall felt more than seen. It's a passive enemy, and he's fought tooth and talon to drive it back, but until that moment, it clung to everything, more tenacious than a netichik.

As the Citadel closes on their position and he can see the new hull—whole where he pulled his love from its skeletal ruins—hope ignites around that solid anchor in his belly. He doesn't examine it too closely for fear that it won't stand up to scrutiny, looking out on the future instead.

The crew around him bursts into applause, trading hugs and slaps on the back. The galaxy's heart beats once more, all of them able to feel its pulse. He wraps his arm around his _pahir_ as Terion steps up beside him.

No matter how dark the universe gets, all hope needs is a little light.

* * *

**Hyalus** \- A particular type of spun glass used to make beautiful figures.

 **Stulti mendur** \- Literal: foolish lies. Vernacular: Bullshit. Short form: **Stulti**

 **Maribellas** \- Beautiful female … a term of endearment aimed more toward a younger female or one with a greater social distance from the speaker.

 **Petri** \- Petrin plural. Female turian under the age of 15

Other than the ghost town feeling of the deserted thoroughfares, the war could have passed the Citadel by. The tour moves through empty street after empty building, their surroundings shiny and new, but lonely. Fewer than two hundred thousand people live on the rebuilt station, most of those on the presidium.

As predicted the day before, the tour throughout the morning proved drier than a dust whorl. Victus walks through, thoughts drifting and unfocused, until the guide stops them on one of the lower levels of Tayseri ward to inspect the new water recycling plant. It's massive and impressively state of the art, but Victus has no eye for machinery. Instead, he watches the shadows, feeling something there, a faint flicker of movement seen from the corner of his eye.

"Does anyone live down here?" he asks, cutting through a long-winded lecture on how the increased capacity allows for … something no one cares about.

The Council's asari guide jumps as if he just stabbed her in the ribs but then clears her throat. "There are no apartments in these levels of the wards other than bunkhouses for workers. Officially no one lives in the station's industrial areas."

Victus chuffs: same old _stulti_. Maybe nothing changes after all. He pushes aside his annoyance and swallows his harsh retort. It's not the guide's fault that the Council line will always be to dismiss the issue. "And unofficially?" He gestures toward a set of eyes staring at them from the darkness under a cluster of pipes. They're turian and young … terrified. His anger spikes again.

He doesn't hear the explanation as he crouches and inches toward those brilliant gold eyes. "Hello." He smiles and rumbles comfort and caring through his subvocals. "My name's Adrien, what's yours?"

For a moment, a tiny face—female and maybe six-cycles-old—moves into the light enough to make out the _puer's_ light red plates. He holds his hand out to her, but she shies away, retreating into her sanctuary.

"What's your name?" he asks, trusting that she didn't go far. "Does your family live nearby?"

"The child is probably just playing down here," their guide says, her entire being rigid with annoyance, aqua fists firmly planted on her hips. After all, he's holding up an official event to talk to a duct rat. After another couple of seconds, she clears her throat. "We try to keep them out, but for every access we seal, they find two more." After another pause, she holds her arm out to usher him forward. "Primarch Victus, please, we're moving on."

Choking down the harsh words that try to bully their way past his clenched jaw, he checks his chrono. It's nearly lunch; the morning portion of the Citadel boredom tour has to be wrapping up. He waves her off. "I'll grab a cab and meet you at the school."

The guide stares, her wide eyes and gasping mouth tugging at his mandibles, trying to pull an unkind grin onto his face. "Primarch! I …."

"Come," Vakarian says, slipping his hand through the guide's arm. "I'm interested to know how water rationing aboard the station will change with a renewable water source below us?" He gives Victus a very cheeky wink as he draws the tour up a long set of stairs and into the recycling plant's interior.

When he looks back, the little turian still stares at him from the shadows. "Do you have a family?" He eases himself down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so he doesn't loom over her.

Her mandibles fall and a subvocal of despair trembles through the still air between them, telling him more than words.

"Did your family die during the war?" He pats his belt pouches, trying to remember if he is carrying any meal bars. He isn't. _Tarc_ , he really needs to remember to stick a couple in there. It's a sign of how neglected his armour has been since he became a full-time politician. "Have you been hiding on the Citadel all this time?"

The child eases out of her hiding place a little, her expression heart-breakingly torn between hope and fear. "The monsters." Glancing behind her, she edges back toward the safety of the darkness.

"They're all dead now," he reassures her, feeling more than a little foolish for doing so. Surely, she knows of the reapers' defeat. She's lived it in an intimate way. He settles a little closer, keeping his subvocals thrumming with gentle, soothing vibrations. "What's your name, _maribellas_?"

She stutters a little. "My _pari_ called me that," she whispers. Shifting from foot to foot, she ducks her head, adorably shy and answers his question. "Zirra." As if sharing her name ties some vital bond of trust, she edges further out, crouching less than a metre away. "Do you live here?"

Victus chuckled, as she continued to creep closer by millimetres. "No, I live on Palaven with my _pahir_."

A tiny flutter of her mandibles betrays an equally tiny smile. "Your _pahir_?"

"He's big now, a _torin_ ," Victus replies, smiling and trilling encouragement when she closes enough to reach out, a tentative talon tapping one of the blue lights on his armour. "He's a teacher." He checks his chrono: the lunch displays will have begun. "I'm going to have some lunch and listen to music. Would you like to come with me and get something to eat?"

As quick as the words leave his mouth, she ducks back into the pipes, disappearing into the shadows. Exhaling his frustration, he stands. It will take someone more than fifteen minutes to coax Zirra out. The only thing he can do is bring her back enough food to hold her over until someone can reach her.

Hearing his bodyguards shifting restlessly, he sighs. While invisible, they can be annoyingly insistent. "All right, I understand. It's pretty big and scary out there, even for a little warrior like you." Her eyes glint from the near darkness. "Did you know that's what your name means?" Crouching, he lifts a hand to brace against the structure. "Zirra were warriors in ancient times, usually _tarini_ , who protected their clan's cave … their home."

His comms beep, dragging out another sigh. "That's my _pahir_ ; I'm late to meet him. Can I bring you some food?" Another beep pulls him up straight. "I'll bring some food if you decide you don't want to come to the party, but I'd love to see you there." The glint of her eyes disappears, so he answers his comms, letting Terion know he's on his way.

Victus steps from the cab onto a pristine presidium lawn. He pauses to look around, the sky blue above his head, the buildings white behind immaculate gardens. The place mourns beneath the perfect exterior. After drowning in the blood of the millions who lived cradled within its arms, how could it not?

Stepping around the shuttle, he ducks away from the small group of dignitaries hovering around the school's principal and the Citadel's multi-racial school board. Harbouring no desire to spend his lunch discussing tax bases and facility rentals, he sets out to see the students' creations.

As promised, the different classes at the school have prepared displays of art, music, poetry, science, and drama. He wanders through, stopping to look at the science projects and art in all its different forms as it expresses the theme of 'appreciation'. Both embarrassment and joy greets a plethora of images crafted in everything from pencil to wax colours to _hyalus_ that show he and Shepard as an obvious couple.

_Damn the mud and the scrounging for enough food. Damn having to lead an alien planet in addition to his own from light years away. His Jane woke up to see his face every morning and fell asleep holding his hand every night. So, despite everything, it had been a beautiful time._

One of the pictures catches his attention. It's three colourful stick figures with some lines poking out of the head of one: clearly a turian fringe. Two have rudimentary guns in one hand while their other holds the hand of a much smaller figure standing between them. Beneath it, the tag says 'Matt helps Mr. and Mrs. Shepard save the galaxy by Matthew Brady, First Grade'.

He jumps when a hand squeezes his shoulder, Terion chuffing a soft apology as he steps up next to Victus. "That's the best likeness of you I've seen all day," his _pahir_ teases. The sigh that follows bleeds empathy. "Why didn't we realize that you and Shepard would be such a popular subject of their art?"

Victus shakes his head, the small grenade lodged in his throat making it impossible to speak. He swallows a few times before he just pushes on. It's stupid to allow a simple picture to slice so deep, even if that human child had drawn his dreams. It's the same on every board, and he wishes he'd worn a cowl to hide his face a little. Especially once people begin to recognize him.

"You two gave everyone so much hope when all we could see was death and rubble and fire," Marc said, appearing on Victus's other side. He stops at a beautifully realized portrait of Victus and Shepard. "They all felt like everything would be okay. Between the two of you, you'd get everyone through." He grips Victus's shoulder as they move on.

Once again, Victus admires and appreciates his _pahir's_ choice of mate as the pair of them act as gentle bodyguards, helping move him through the gathering press of well-wishers. Victus's official protection, learned within the first month to remain as invisible as possible unless imminent danger presented itself.

"Hello, sweety," a distant voice says, clearly cutting through the background music and chatter. "Did you get separated from your class?"

Victus spins, that voice husky and rich and familiar. He spots Zirra cringing in a corner, a thick slab of meat clutched in trembling talons. A thin, black-haired woman crouches a metre or so away, her hand held out to reassure the child.

"It's okay, _maribellas_ , I won't hurt you," the woman continues. "You look hungry." She held out a coaxing hand. "How about we get you a whole plate full?" She brushes long hair behind her ear, and he can see a smile when Zirra eases out of the corner a little.

Victus freezes, holding his breath. It can't be Shepard, just someone who sounds like her. Beside him, Terion looks away from a beautiful piece of _hyalu_ s created by the senior class.

" _Pari_? You okay?" When Victus doesn't reply, Terion grips his wrist.

Moving slowly—she's definitely had experience dealing with terrified children—the woman gets close enough to reach out and touch Zirra. She doesn't though. Instead, she just holds out her hand and waits. Victus closes his eyes and breathes deep of the myriad of scents. Food, perfumes, flowers, and grass confuse him for a handful of seconds before he finds it:

Jasmine and spice … the scent of a cabin filled with steam and a fuzzy pink bathrobe. He opens his eyes, his stare finding and locking onto this so-familiar stranger.

"There's a lot of really good food here." Even as she speaks, she digs into a pocket, coming out with a sweet particularly popular with turians. "Do you like these?" she asks, offering it. "I keep them in my pockets because my students love them."

Zirra snatches the candy, clutching it and the meat against her keel.

He walks over, approaching slowly to catch the _puer's_ attention. When Zirra turns to him, he smiles and crouches behind the woman. "Hi there, Zirra," he says. "I'm glad you came."

The woman pivots on her toes, facing him, and for three breathless seconds, their eyes lock.

"Jane." The name comes out in a hushed gasp. The long black hair is foreign, as is the pale skin and the bright blue of the stare, but he knows … just knows … it's her.

After another breathless second, the woman blinks, surprised and confused enough that Victus loses his assurance. Despite turning her attention back to Zirra, she asks him, "Do you know this lovely _petri_?" Her gaze remains sealed and distant, and Victus questions himself. Is he seeing something that isn't there?

He clears his throat and then says, "Yes, we met one another a little while ago down in the pipes of the water recycling plant." Hopefully that detail will clue her in without alarming Zirra, he looks back to the _puer_. "Did you come to have lunch with me?" Gesturing toward the long buffet tables, he smiles. "I hope so … there's so much good food here, I'm going to make myself sick eating it all."

Zirra's mandibles flutter into a brief smile. She creeps out of the corner. "I can stay with you?" she asks him as she eases her way past the woman.

"That sounds like a wonderful plan," the teacher says, standing. Her movement sends that gorgeous scent wafting through the air. Returning into her pocket, she withdraws a card and a pen, then writes on the back and passes it to him. "There are a lot of treats up on the dextro table; I'm so jealous. All we levos have is fruitcake and apple pie." She brushes Zirra's cheek with her first finger, the child surprising him when she doesn't flinch.

He offers Zirra his hand and glances at the card. The teacher's name and school contacts cover the front in a practical font—Elizabeth Upilio—and on the back it says, 'I'll have a worker make contact. Even if child wants to stay below, she'll be fed' in tiny, neat letters. He lifts the card to his face, a starving _torin_ served the most savoury cut of meat. Of all the things he's missed, he didn't realize ….

Looking up, he watches Elizabeth Upilio's back as she walks away, her stride as familiar as her stare and her voice. For one mad, unreasonable second, he wants to obey his instincts, run after her and demand that she stop pretending. The urge drops to a manageable roar when Zirra's thin, trembling hand slides into his.

He looks down into her beautiful violet eyes and smiles. As much trauma as the little one has survived, she meets his gaze with a hope so brilliant that it breaks his heart. Before the war, she'd been the bright spot at the heart of someone's universe, and they'd been her entire world.

In that moment, and despite his efforts to keep Tarquin present and held close, he sees his _pahir_ falling. Choking a little on the first words, he manages to say, "So, how about we get a plate for that meat?" Despite the new, sparkling Citadel, the galaxy remains changed forever. And as much as they like to sing the praises of resurrection, he feels the truth: for decades to come, loss will remain a constant companion.

Dragging his racing heart back under control, he sticks the card into his belt pouch and looks up again, but the ebony-haired teacher has vanished into the crowd, leaving behind just the barest hint of jasmine and roses.

(A-N: Yep, she's still alive. Adrien just makes me stupidly happy. Even when he's sad and lonely.)


	17. Chapter Seventeen -- Memories of Jewels and Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear and rage coil through him, serpents baring their fangs to strike as he searches the document for any clue as to the enemy's identity. How dare they? Whoever they are, how dare they turn their scopes anywhere close to her direction? Forget threatening his life—he's been a soldier a lot longer than he's been a primarch—they've made it clear that he's only their first target.

**Obluvis** \- plural **Obluvi**. One who is senile or absent-minded. Slang: Idiot

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Coillas (Coillasi - plural)** \- The chains that hold turian bonding robes closed. After the ceremonies, they are wrapped and fastened around the wrists of both bond-mates.

 **Tryllic** \- A marsupial analogue native to Palaven. Used as tracking animals.

 **Praela(s)** \- The name for ancient warrior spirits who were believed to ride great beasts (or forces of nature) into war at the head of their tribe's legions. Spirits of great bravery, tenacity, and a fearsome beauty.

The air smells different when Victus arrives back at his place in government housing: teasing his nostrils with spicy-sweetness rather than age-old smoke and decay. It takes him a moment to realize the source … rylamia. Spirits, it's blooming again. He crosses the lawn to the long row of bushes and crouches to smell the tiny, star-shaped flowers.

"You've worked miracles," a voice says from behind him. "Palaven—the entire empire—is recovering at light speed, much faster than the rest of the galaxy."

Victus jumps up and spins, taking a couple of seconds to recognize Garrus Vakarian in the darkness. Street lights remain a luxury except at the city's core. Still, it _is_ the younger Vakarian leaning against the frame of the primarch's front door.

A soft chuff carries on the cool breeze as Vakarian pops a rylamia flower into his mouth and continues between chewing, "Of course, Earth spent most of its recycling facilities and resources on getting the Citadel back up and running. I think Hackett just gave into all of the council's demands because he needed to get them off the planet before he shot them. Not that I blame him."

Victus takes a few steps forward, stopping a good three metres away from the other _torin_ , just staring, heart pounding at the base of his throat. The last handful of hours haven't been a delusion … some feverish wish of a broken heart. Elizabeth Upilio is Shepard … his Jane.

"Garrus." The name drifts from his mouth, his tongue and mandibles too chill and numb to enunciate. "You're here."

 _Way to state the blatantly obvious,_ obluvis _._

"She asked me not contact you," Vakarian says, simply. "She said we had to let you do what needed to be done for Palaven and the turian people." He pushes off the carved wood and lets out a huge, noisy sigh. "I almost called you a few times ... on her really bad days. I'd get as far as inputting your code, and then I'd flashback to the silent, depressed mess you left me with, and I just couldn't put her through all that again." Another sigh, this one lower … sounding resigned more than anything. "Of course, since I wasn't able to get her out of the school in time, it's probably waiting at home for me now."

"She seemed strong today. Of course, she was taking care of everyone else." Victus shakes his head. "I don't care what the rest of our people think, Garrus," he says, closing the distance between them in two strides. "When I arrived home and found out that Commodus had been feeding us both handfuls of _tarc_ , I sent him so far out into the frontier that he'll never find his way back." Another stride. "She didn't have to throw me away and run." A soft keen rumbles through the air instead of the words he longs to say.

_Why doesn't she realize I miss her more with every moment?_

Flicking his mandibles once, hard, he slaps a lid down on his sorrow and longing, months … cycles of worry flaring into anger. "I've been searching for you two idiots since the day after I left Earth. Where in the name of the nine rings have you been?" His voice rises to a tight shout, louder with each question. "Is she all right? Did she keep getting treatment?"

Garrus steps aside and holds a hand out toward the door. "Maybe we'd better continue this inside, Primarch."

Victus follows Garrus's gaze up to the lit windows in the adjacent houses: curious faces peer out.

Right, best not argue this out in public: he steps up to enter his lock code. The sorrow in Garrus's eyes eases back the indignant anger boiling in Victus's chest. Vakarian has nothing to apologize for: he's simply been protecting the friend he loves.

He pauses before opening the door. "Is she all right?"

Vakarian nods, then gestures toward the door again. "The rest is best left for where prying ears can't hear."

After unlocking the door, Victus palms the control, then leads the way inside. "Where have you been? And she's Elizabeth Upilio now?" Stopping just over the threshold, he turns back.

Garrus draws up short, nearly walking into Victus's chest guard. "She was Elizabeth Vakarian for a while, but the press and Alliance still found us too easily. We're both Upilio now." When Victus raises his brow plates, his heart caving in on itself, Garrus chuffs and says, "In name only." He holds up his wrists to show that there are no _coillasi_ wrapped around them.

After holding locked stares for several seconds, Vakarian shrugs. "You know as well as I do that Shepard never wanted to be a soldier. Mindoir changed everything: it created the woman who became Commander Jane Shepard. With the war over, she needed to escape being the galaxy's hope. Hackett called her selfish for trying to hide." His subvocals roll low and angry. "Elizabeth Upilio is just another soldier who survived the reapers."

 _Tarc._ He knew Hackett wouldn't leave Shepard alone, Earth and the council demanding every last drop of her blood and energy. Turning, Victus jerks his head toward the inside. "Come in, and sit down."

The primarch unleashes a little of his anger when he throws his briefcase onto the couch. The datapads inside rattle around as the leather attache bounces and tumbles off, hitting the floor. Leaving it where it falls, he heads into the kitchen. He needs a drink. Recalling Jane teasing Garrus about the smell of his favourite beverage, he pours them both puala nectar and returns to the common area, taking a seat next to his upside down briefcase.

Garrus remains standing only halfway into the room, looking every bit the prisoner brought before his sentencing tribunal.

Victus's turn to chuff. "Sit. I doubt this is going to be a conversation quickly ended." Waiting until Vakarian sits on the couch across from him, he places the juice on the table between. Obligations of hospitality met, he leans back, resting his nectar on one thigh. "So, start from the beginning."

Garrus drains half the glass, making noises that force Victus to wonder if he shouldn't have brought the jug … or give Vakarian and the juice some privacy. No doubt, Shepard's right hand has spent most of the past three and a half cycles in human space, living off emergency rations.

That answer comes in the form of a long sigh of pleasure. " _Tarc_ , I've missed puala juice." After a moment and another swallow, he puts down the glass. "We left on a shuttle to Vancouver about a half hour after the _Normandy_ lifted off." Vakarian leans back on the couch and crosses an ankle over the other knee. "She wanted to give us a good head start before you could send out search parties. She knew that you'd hit our trail like a _tryllic_ holding a grudge."

"But her treatments …." Victus shakes his head, his gut suddenly rejecting his juice. When Shepard passed out on the good will tour, Lawson said that parts of the recovering _praela's_ organs remained necrotic and damaged. "She needed to keep them up. Lawson said it would be nearly a year before she could stop."

Vakarian shrugs. "It took some convincing to get Lawson in on the plan, but in the end, she agreed that peace and quiet would do Shepard far more good than a constant media circus. We all knew that Hackett wouldn't stop using Shepard to his full advantage, whether she'd quit the Alliance or not." He sighs, a long breath that sinks him down into the cushions. "So, Lawson sent us with a month's supply of the meds, made us promise to send daily scans and meet her at the local hospital in a month."

Victus stares at the other _torin_ for long moments, still trying to believe that he's in the same life. That morning, he woke, struggling to get out of bed … to face another day with an empty heart and a life devoid of anything but duty. He held up Shepard's gift, watching the medal catch the morning light for long moments before clipping it inside his clothing.

Garrus makes a soft sound that pulls Victus back into the here and now.

Clearing his throat, Victus nods, then asks, "Where did you go?" A starving _torin_ , scrambling for even the tiniest scraps and crumbs, he nearly chokes on his eagerness.

"We moved into a cabin south of Canmore, a town in the mountains east of Vancouver," Garrus replies. "It was a decent sized town before the war, and too far into the wilderness to draw much reaper attention. The hospital was still operational, and a lot of survivors fled there, hoping to disappear and nurse their wounds." His tone slid toward sarcastic with a hint of bitterness. "We fit right in."

After spending a moment imagining Shepard in the setting, Victus nods to himself. He'd seen the towering wall of the Rocky Mountains on a trip to Vancouver. Shepard couldn't have picked a more perfect place to heal.

"After Miranda gave her a clean bill of health and the Alliance fitted her with new prosthetics, we moved east into the foothills and settled on a farm," Garrus continued. "She rounded up horses and cattle that had escaped from ranches during the war. She took in every stray pet that crossed her path and scrounged for seeds to plant a garden … filled her days with simple loves. I took a daily shuttle into Calgary and learned how to hold a hammer." Another long breath drifts from him, and he sinks deeper into the couch. "It felt good to let ourselves disappear into simple lives … to just be … ordinary people."

Ordinary: the word carries enough gravity to open a wormhole through the universe big enough to pull him in.

"But you moved on," Victus says. "You left paradise." After placing his glass on the table, he braces his forearms across his thighs, his talons hanging between his knees. "For the Citadel?" Looking up at his one-time advisor, weariness colours his curiosity. Will Shepard run now that her cover is blown?

Garrus nods, a bob of his head that sort of springs back, winding down like a ball dropped on the floor. "It was a good place for her to heal some of the deeper wounds, but …." He sighs and looks up, meeting Victus's stare, mandibles crooked, his smile both wry and smug.

"But?" the word escapes, breathless, before the primarch manages to lock it down.

Garrus's browplates leap up, then one cocks. "Really? You don't know?" He chuckles and shakes his head before pushing himself off the couch to walk to the front window. Victus looks past him to see Nanus hanging high in the sky. "Guess Menae won't rise for a couple of hours," Garrus says, his tone almost entranced. "I've been gone so long I don't remember their cycle any longer."

Victus clears his throat, refusing to repeat the question, to which Garrus chuckles and returns to the couch.

"She'll never be truly happy anywhere," he says, a sort of lonely trill echoing under the words, "except by your side. She loves you enough that the most beautiful landscape, the most intelligent, witty, and rakishly good-looking company … nothing will hold her for long. As soon as the 'new' wears off a place, the itch sets back in."

A long silence drifts between them, the air heavy and humid, laden with the slight salt-tang of dusty tears. Garrus finally leans forward, mirroring Victus's posture, but with his talons interwoven between his knees. "Her body is healed, Adrien. The scars have faded, but only the visible ones. Inside, she's broken. The war, losing so many friends, so many planets laid waste … it shattered her." A thrum vibrates through the weighted silence without lightening it. He looks up, meeting Victus's stare. "I think we both knew it would, and that it had."

Victus merely nods, regret coating the back of his throat: thick and rancid.

Garrus's stare returns to his half-finished glass of juice. "Severe PTSD is the official diagnosis, but in the beginning, day to day, it meant making sure she got out of bed, dressed, ate, and then doing a perimeter sweep wherever we were living." Vakarian shrugs and lets out a sorrowful sigh. "She would never ask me to do any of it, but she has better days when I take the extra precautions. Now, she gets out of bed and eats without prompting most of the time. Life means taking her to work, perimeter sweep, then meeting her at her classroom and taking her home. It means making conversation all evening because otherwise, she'd just sit in her chair staring at a vid she isn't watching. And then it means getting into the same bed because if I leave her alone, she wakes up screaming from nightmares."

Another rumble, one of tangled sorrow and pride'. "It means treating a strong, proud friend with the respect and love she's earned even while I juggle her broken pieces."

"Sounds like you've grown into bond-mates," Victus says, no jealousy in his tone or heart. He thanks the spirits that Shepard's has Garrus to bring her through the war … everything before ... and everything after.

"Sure, unless you count the whole 'she's in love with someone else' issue." Garrus's gaze falls to the floor, along with a ragged sigh. "I love her with every cell in my being, Adrien Victus, so I will try to keep her from running. She loves me, so I think she'll listen, but you're going to have to start making some cautious inroads."

"Anyway." Shoving off his knees, he stands, almost violently, and strides to the door. "That's what I came here to say." He palmed the door control. "No one deserves to be happy more than she does, Adrien. Just take it slow."

Victus leaps up and hurries around the end of the couch to catch Garrus before he makes it out the door. "If I wrote her a message, would you give it to her? I don't want to send anything over the comms. I want it to be personal."

Garrus stares Victus down for a moment before he nods and backs away from the door, allowing it to close. "Gently," he says, his voice following Victus down the hallway.

The primarch closes his bedroom door behind him, flopping back against it. What can he say? He has to say something, but what? Something simple, but that tells her the depth of what he feels. He recalls their goodbye in London before charging the Citadel, her fingers removing his gloves, hanging them on her belt as if they belonged there. Nodding, he peels off his gloves, places them in an envelope and seals it. It shouldn't even need a note. She'll remember the message. He grins, his heart beating so fast he might as well be thirteen again, trying to work up the nerve to ask Lanira to a school dance.

"You ready?" Garrus calls. "She's going to start to wonder where I am."

"Ready." Victus opens the door and marches over to Garrus, thrusting the envelope into the _torin's_ hand before he can change his mind. "Thank you, Garrus. For everything." When the door closes behind Victus's wartime aid, he paces the depth of his home for nearly an hour, hoping that when Shepard sees his message, she doesn't just disappear, clinging to her stubborn ideas about what he and his people need.

* * *

**Obluvis** \- plural **Obluvi**. One who is senile or absent-minded. Slang: Idiot

 **Domin** \- House in the sense of being a home.

 **Cisera** \- A non-alcoholic, foamy cider made from the juice of more than twenty varieties of edible cactus analogues.

 **Patrem** \- Father (Familiar form Pari equivalent to dad)

 **Pahir** \- (plural: **Pahirin)** Male progeny.

 **Puer** \- Puerin plural. Child.

 **Caris** \- Beloved, precious, cherished

The door slams the wall, sounding as though it explodes when it bounces back. The sound sends Victus rolling for cover, bringing him up on one knee to face his attackers.

Instead of assassins or thieves, Terion and Marc stand just inside the door, both grinning like complete _obluvi_. Victus shakes his head as he scrambles up off the floor, every last bone and joint creaking. Of course, his shadows would never allow anyone through the door unchallenged: he's getting jumpy in his middle age.

"Fall asleep on the couch?" Terion asks, clapping Victus on the shoulder as he hurries past. Without waiting for an answer, he continues, "Is there any food in the _domin_? I'm starved." Various items rattle across the counter and then rummaging sounds tumble out of the other room. "We spent the last eight or so hours clambering through the Citadel's maintenance tunnels and ventilation shafts to find the rest of Zirra's group."

Victus turns, following Marc as the younger _torin_ strode into the room. "Zirra's group?"

Marc circles the couch, flopping down on the one opposite Victus. "Twenty-three kids, six species, all under the age of fifteen, except for a pair of twin asari who are twenty-two." He shakes his head and stretches before pulling himself upright and leaning forward, bracing against his thighs. "And Zirra?" Shaking his head again, he makes it plain that he means her name as an expression of wonder, rather than an actual question.

Settling into the corner of the couch, both feet on the coffee table, Victus watches Marc's face try to express a hundred emotions at once. Instead of answering or prying for more information, the primarch just nods, letting the young _torin_ sort it all through.

"The asari, a krogan, and two of the humans—both not quite teenagers—were attending a biotics class when the reapers took over the station. Little by little, they found the others." Marc's description pauses to allow Terion to interject through the kitchen door with grunts of disgust or trills of amazement.

"Zirra," Marc continues, "they found crying at the bottom of a pile of bodies; she was two." He looks up as Terion enters the room with two plates of food and mugs of _cisera_ , taking a massive mouthful the moment his plate touches his talons.

Picking up the story as he takes a seat next to his _cari_ s—the two draw a smile from Victus as they tussle a little over an equal share of the cushion-space—Terion says, "Those _puerin_ survived the reapers and the blast by hiding in the superstructure, deep enough to avoid vacuum." He shoves in a massive mouthful of what looks like layers of meat with different spices and sauce pouring out from in between. The snack gives the primarch an unsettled belly just looking at it, but then Terion pulls him back to the conversation. "They scrounged through every apartment, store, and restaurant to find food."

"Even made jury-rigged environment suits to fit the larger kids," Marc says between bites. "Amazingly resourceful." Marc looks down, surprise flicking across his face when he faces an empty plate. "I can't believe I ate that fast." After a soft belch and patting his stomach, he leans back, either the leather or his belly letting out a long groan. "I think I might be sick."

As if gleaning some wisdom from Marc's mistake, Terion sets down his plate. "The worker that Ms. Upilio sent to talk to you: we spent hours talking to her, and she's placed the _puerin_ in one of the new houses in the wards with a couple of volunteers."

"Apparently," Marc says, sliding in as slick as could be on the end of Terion's words. Have they rehearsed? "There are no shortage of people wanting to adopt." He closes his eyes and shakes his head a little, his talons reaching out to close around Terion's.

"Too many parents and babies lost," Terion finishes. He glances at Marc, seeming almost shy, but only happiness and hope turns to look into Victus's eyes. "We talked to her about adopting Zirra and the youngest human, Sam, a boy who's seven of their years old."

Victus can't control the wide grin that spreads across his face at the idea of children racing through the silent rooms of their home. "You'll stay here," he asks, looking from one to the other, "and let me help raise them?"

"Told you." Marc grins and elbows Terion. "And you were worried."

Fighting back half-heartedly, Victus's _pahir_ shrugs. "I didn't know if _pari'd_ had enough of plucking silly, half-cocked adventurers out of trees and bandaging scraped elbows and knees."

"Never." Victus stands and walks over, tugging them up into an embrace. "I'll help you raise your family until you or they tire of me. It's precisely the sort of miracle I hoped for in those dark, desperate hours in London."

When Victus retires to bed hours later, he eases into sleep, his sheets warm and soft against his plates, his heart thumping soft and just a little quick as he listens to his _pahirin_ chattering away, planning their family. Shepard must have received his message. He closes his eyes, thoughts of family and love carrying him away.

_Please come back to me and share in it._

* * *

**Mahir** \- (plural: **Mahirin)** Female progeny.

 **Spurin** \- Turian equivalent of bastard, in the sense of a despicable person.

Four days later, a landslide of datapads and files teeters above Victus, threatening to collapse and make him the first primarch assassinated by means of "crushed into paste by paperwork", when his office door opens.

"Spirits! When did all this arrive? Are you actually in there, sir, or do I have to call rescue services?" Ralayis calls, her voice bubbling over with mirth. "I told you to stagger the report back dates for end of cycle." Some shuffling. "The colonies sent their cycle-end reports too?" Ralayis chuckles. "You're just asking for punishment."

Victus grumbles, but doesn't look up from the report he's trying to read. It's drier than chewing on sand, but he needs to know even the most boring details to shape his plan for the coming cycle.

She sighs and a small package appears above the pile of files. "Anyway, this just came for you. I won't put it on top in case it's the drop that breaks the dam." When he doesn't take it, she waves the envelope a little. "And, since you didn't heed my warning of doom about all this paperwork, do you want me to get an intern or two in here to help sort through it?"

That snatches his attention, hope springing to life as he looks up at her. He might survive end-of-cycle without a landslide. As much as he loves that his people are recovering at light speed, he can't help but be a little dismayed at the sheer volume increase in his paperwork.

Interns … why didn't he think of that? "This disaster landed less than an hour ago. So, maybe three? And someone to drag all their data into a form that lends itself to analysis?"

That settled, he plucks the thin envelope from her talons. As he looks it over, his heart races even though the package is too flat to contain his gloves. Neat, but hesitant, turian script spells his name on the front, but other than that, there's no other marks on the paper.

"You going to open it or just stare at it and drool?" Ralayis's eyes sparkle above her grin. "It might be important."

Victus flips his talons toward the door. "Get out of here before I fire you for your inappropriate and over-familiar attitude." Despite the threat, he hides a grin behind a hand and a feigned cough. They've been through too much … gotten one another through too much ... to adhere to propriety. The kid is more like his _mahir_ than his assistant.

Letting her answering chuff roll past unremarked, Victus's eyes fixate on the script. It's written with ink, not printed. Sliding his talon under the envelope's flap, he cuts a slit along the top. A small piece of paper sits, nearly lost in the bottom of the envelope. After another breath or three whisper through his lungs before his shaking talons reach inside and pull it out.

It's a set of coordinates on the Citadel. A short line of numbers with no context or explanation … no time. What's he supposed to do with it? Staring at it with an intensity that threatens to burn the paper's secrets free to read in the smoke, he weighs the wisdom of blindly just appearing at some set of random coordinates. His people love him, but he'll never be naive enough to believe assassins aren't out there, waiting.

He's still debating the wisdom of going to the coordinates as he lands his personal shuttle in the dark interior of one of the ward arms. His shadows slip from their second vehicle, parked a fair distance back, and disappear into a passage underground. Nearly ten minutes pass before their all-clear squawks in his ear.

Pushing the door button, he lifts his legs out but pauses to open his omnitool before standing. The coordinates still lie about two hundred metres away. Reaching into the backseat, he pulls out a kit packed with necessities, including a pistol if he needs it. He really hopes he doesn't need it.

His path leads him down under a large block of living space, apartments surrounding a park and a variety of community buildings in the center. He barely gets a chance to look at it before descending through a hatch and down three flights of stairs. He feels rather than sees his shadows take positions behind him. Once, he would have felt leery of creeping down into the noisome stink and questionable environment beneath the wards, even with his shadows. Society's ignored lived in the unlawful dark in between civilization's pretty lights; the unemployed, the ill or abandoned, all of the lost and invisible becoming either predator or prey. He needs to make a point of seeing them all now that he's primarch.

However, mere weeks from the end of reconstruction, everything feels light and clean. Everyone on the station works on the station … or so they'd thought until Zirra and her family of youngsters appeared. The pipes gleam and the floors shine. No water drips down walls, no mold or moss grows in the low places. He passes through pristine surroundings, his boot tread steady on the path down.

Despite it being a struggle, he locks his mind on Zirra ... the station … the war ... _tarc_ , even his waiting paperwork, just to avoid hoping that Shepard awaits him at the coordinates. His efforts go straight down the septic twenty steps further down, the stink of machinery carrying the faintest hint of white flowers and fresh linen.

Closing his eyes, he draws the scent into the back of his mouth. What had Shepard called those flowers? Ja … jami … jasmine. Right, jasmine. The air moves through the tunnel, cool and carrying more of the sweet fragrance.

He carries on, eyes open and watching the shadows. The space is very like their refuge on the Normandy. Heart pounding, he pauses at the bottom of the slope, hope wrenching him out of the exhausted fugue that's gripped him for so long. Gentle beeps and blips of someone using a datapad draw him on.

He pauses, heart climbing into his throat, hope and terror washing his veins with fire and then ice. Is she down here? It makes sense that she'd find herself a haven … a refuge away from everything.

Pausing just before he steps into a pool of dim golden light, he hears, "Primarch?" Feet tap lightly, soles hitting the floor, then footsteps. The black-haired beauty from the school function steps around a bulkhead, looking up at him through a layer of metal grating. She tips her head toward the space behind her, eyes sparkling. "You're welcome to share my cave."

Victus stares, the contact lenses that turned her eyes blue are gone, rich green gazing straight back at him. He tries to reply … struggles to get words out, but his lungs gasp, paralyzed … a dull fog of disbelief wrapping his brain in cotton.

She smiles, and he's not sure he's ever seen anything more beguiling. "I have dual-chirality alcohol." Her smile tugs at one side of her mouth, tempting him with the crystal-clear memory of that night … the night she began his healing after Tarquin's death.

Answering that with a soft chuff, he takes the final few steps, stopping just past the wall. The memory surrounds him, a perfect, glimmering jewel. He smiles as the memory eases the breath and the words from his chest. "An impossible offer to refuse."

As he steps around the grating and looks into Shepard's eyes, he takes a deep breath, his shoulders dropping when he exhales. "I knew," he whispers, talons reaching up to lift a lock of long, black hair between them. "I knew it was you." His swallow sounds like a mallet hitting flesh, echoing as strongly as a slap. When she backs up a step, her hair slipping from between his talons, he follows half way before forcing himself to stop.

"My Jane." The words feel like a prayer, one he isn't sure he says out loud until she stops retreating and holds his stare once more. He meets hesitancy with a smile and the rapid pounding of his heart. He breathes her in. "I'd know you anywhere, through any disguise."

Shepard hesitates, her eyes fixed on his, her weight shifting from foot to foot as if she can't decide whether to run into his arms or flee the other way. "Service before self," she whispers, but she seems to be reminding herself as she nods and backs away.

Victus follows, a soft moan greeting the appearance of her cave. Like on the _Normandy,_ a cot and a makeshift desk hide within the recesses. Datapads cover the desk, but where she'd once swept them aside to make room for him, Shepard retreats behind the crates, still unsure. Confusion and sorrow battle for control. Why? Has so much changed in three cycles?

Shepard swallows a handful of times before she speaks, rushed and breathy, her gaze suddenly unsteady. "Welcome to my cave, Primarch."

Is she panicking? Has she turned him into something that triggers her PTSD rather than the warm arms that once eased it?

"Jane," he says, stopping his slow pursuit, "what's wrong? Are you all right?" Where seconds before his heart raced, it stops dead, a frozen stone cracking in his chest. Shards tear through every fibre. "You're not … ." His mandibles slap tight against his face, sorrow strangling his hope. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." She steps out a little. There's a strength along her jaw and in her spine that defy his sadness. In less than a half-second he sees his mistake: it's not fear in her eyes, it's yearning locked down behind clenched teeth and fists.

"I'm not afraid of you, Adrien; I'm afraid for you." Two more steps, each soothing his pain a little more. "I'm risking your life right now." Her stare flutters to the floor, a dropped feather; it takes all his fortitude to keep himself from leaping forward to catch it. "Do you really believe anything else could have kept me away?"

Victus's foot slides a quarter-metre closer, the truth suddenly so plain that it calls him a complete idiot. She hasn't been protecting him from politics and protests. That day she said Commodus contacted her, someone threatened to kill him.

"That's why I had you meet me here." She lifts one of the datapads off the top of the pile and holds it out to him. "When you saw me at the luncheon, I knew I had two choices: run or read you in."

Closing just enough to take the pad from her hands, Victus lets out a soft, soothing subvocal, hoping to make the first option less appealing. "Thank you for going this direction," he says before finally settling down to read the contents. It takes him nearly a minute make any sense of the words on the pad.

The message, sent to Shepard's personal account, contains the standard threats he receives on weekly basis, but far more specific. There are photos within the document. He stops and looks up at Shepard, his disbelieving stare seeking confirmation in hers.

"They were there?" he asked. "They had a rifle on me—on us—at every event, every moment." Looking back down at the file, he stares at the second to last photo. It shows the two of them, Shepard held in Victus's arms, Lake Lucerne in the foreground. Their date. "Even there?" The last photo shows them sitting on the picnic table next to the Thames in London.

Fear and rage coil through him, serpents baring their fangs to strike as he searches the document for any clue as to the enemy's identity. How dare they? Whoever they are, how dare they turn their scopes anywhere close to her direction? Forget threatening his life—he's been a soldier a lot longer than he's been a primarch—they've made it clear that he's only their first target.

"Everywhere." Shepard passes him another datapad, and then another. Each of them contain threats and stills of Victus taken through scopes as he went about his life, both public and private. He scrolls down, his blood freezing as three images show Shepard in various disguises.

"They've been tracking you," he whispers the obvious, his brain trying to slot everything into place. "You stayed away to split their attention?"

"They know I've been looking for their nest," she says, stepping close enough that she drew his gaze, "so they keep tabs on me. They usually catch onto my identities within a couple of months, but haven't locked onto Elizabeth Upilio yet." Shepard's statement does nothing to ease his tension. "It's taken me nearly three years, but I'm so damned close." She swallows loud enough for him to hear. "I'd hoped to get it sorted before you caught on, but clearly the universe saw fit to throw you into my path." Spinning away, she paces a few steps then back, an exaggerated shrug escaping when she stopped less than an arm's length away. "So I guess we'll have to take them on together, if your security forces allow it."

Victus tosses the datapads onto the cot and reaches out to grip her hands in his. His heart stops: she's real and there. These hands … they're so tiny in his, so deceptively frail-looking, their trembling echoing all the way down into his gut to shake his words loose. "You wanted to take care of these _spurin_ before seeing me again? We should have been working on this together all along." He tugs her closer. Shepard resists with each step, every pull back against his grip yanking at his soul. "I've spent the last cycles sick at heart for missing you, Jane."

Her resistance stops, but the eyes that look up into his remain distanced. "Better that than dead, Primarch." A trembling hand breaks free of his grip, reaching halfway to his mandible before she jerks it back. "I couldn't risk it; I couldn't risk you. I've lost so much … to lose you ..." She shakes her head as if finishing that sentence honestly escapes her. "I knew where you were and that you were safe, and I knew Garrus's father would let you know we were alive. Service before self: I couldn't put you in danger just because of my longing or loneliness."

She twists her other hand, trying to wrench it loose, but instead, Victus pulls her in, the combined force making her stumble, hands slapping against his chest to steady herself. Victus wraps both arms around her, slack enough that she can break loose if she wants to, but he hopes she'll let him hold her.

"Shepard … Jane," he whispers in her ear, bending to breathe her in, to spend even thirty seconds lost in her presence, "please, stop running. I've missed you … longed for this moment for three cycles. Can we just sit down for a minute?" Dear spirits, she still fits so perfectly in against his side, feels so right there. How has he survived three cycles without cradling her there?

When she pulls away, he lets her go despite the soft, chill breeze that curls off his armour in her wake. She turns her back, pulling a soft, almost bleating keen from his throat. But then she reaches the end of his arm and her hand grips his rather than releasing him, and she pulls him behind her.

In that moment, a bright, dagger-sharp sun slices away the ashen clouds, and he mutters under his breath, feeling foolish … once again he's thirteen and dancing to the tune of the most beautiful heart in the room.

Shepard stops pulling at him, breaking him free of his silliness. A firm hand and a crooked smile push him down onto the cot. He stares at her, not even needing to tilt his head back: he's a small turian, but she's still two hands shorter than him. She smiles into his eyes for a half second, and he swears he can hear her heart thundering inside her chest. Or is it his kicking up such a fuss?

Her hands clasp the sides of his face: warm, gloved thumbs brushing along his mandibles. "I'd be lying if I told you that I don't wake up with the warmth of your mouth still on my lips, the strength of your arms holding me," she whispers, leaning down, her breath anointing his brow.

Spirits, he must have died. At some point in the last couple of days, he has to have died and fallen straight into his dreams, his most fevered wishes.

Without breaking her grip on his face, Shepard slides onto his lap. As she straddles his thighs, magma pours through him, igniting as it hits his blood, ribbons of fire flaring through his every cell. Her hands caress his face, tender … as if she's relearning him, comparing him to her memory. His hands remember they aren't glued to his sides and they lift to stroke her waist's narrow curves.

"We can do anything together," he reminds her. He leans in to press his brow to hers.

Her eyes close and she leans into him. "I stayed away because I knew if I came within a thousand klicks, I wouldn't be able to keep you safe. When I'm with you, you're the only thing I can see."

Wrapping his arms around her, Victus leans back against the bulkhead, pulling her in tight against him. "And you the only thing I can see." Smiling, he tips his head up to brush his mouth plates against her lips … they're slightly parted, her breath panting softly between them. "So we'll wear armour and let my bodyguards do something to earn their paychecks."

A soft shake of her head sends her long waves of silken hair cascading over her shoulders to brush his face. He almost speaks … almost says something about the colour … but then her lips press against his mouth, heated and velvet as they arch into one another … whispers of light glinting through the dark to warm skin too long left cold.

(A-N: :D I hope you enjoy! Sorry about the wait on my other fics. Health is rough this month. Hopefully it'll come around. *hugs*)


	18. Chapter Eighteen -- The Unfathomable Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He understands. She doesn't miss killing, but taking out the bad guys … exacting justice where it can't otherwise be found … that, she misses … that makes her blood sing with flame as it races through every cell. He understands, his own blood just as filled with righteous fire.

**Buratrum**   _-_ The realm of the spirits of dishonourable association.

 **Torin**  - Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin**  - Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Quiritus**  - Applies to both genders equally. Equivalent to people or ladies and gentlemen.

 **Tarc**  - Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Siccerta**  - A large (average size 2-4 metres in length, 100 kilos), desert dwelling lizard-analogue known for its long fringe, which it can extend out to impress mates or intimidate competitors, and its dual toned, raspy hiss.

 **Spurin** \- (plural: spurin) Equivalent of bastard, but in the sense of an unpleasant and despicable person rather than the sense of being of illegitimate birth.

 

* * *

Shepard opens fire the moment she runs through the door; Victus's shadows pushing through on her tail. The primarch swallows a bolus of annoyance at their overprotectiveness. It's their job, and the empire hasn't recovered enough to endure the loss of their only primarch, but still. He wants to fight at Shepard's side, not witness the entire battle against the bastards threatening them from the back. He dodges around the turian-shaped wall of armour and ducks into cover next to her.

"Eight more spread out through this floor of the warehouse," she says, studying the scanner on her omnitool. "The Proud Remains, my ass," she says, flashing him a brilliant smile. As much as she doesn't want to be a soldier any longer, he sees the old Commander Shepard passion sparkling there. "Tattered remains, if we're being generous and on their way to bloody remains."

He understands. She doesn't miss killing, but taking out the bad guys … exacting justice where it can't otherwise be found … that, she misses … that makes her blood sing with flame as it races through every cell. He understands, his own blood just as filled with righteous fire.

Looking past him to his shadows, she orders three of the turians to move up the left hand side of the room while the others take the center. The detail's captain opens her mouth and takes a breath to argue, but Shepard arches her eyebrow and shakes her head.

"Council Spectre," she says, her lips pressed tight. She looks annoyed, but Victus sees the sparkle in her eyes as she continues, "I saved the entire galaxy from the reapers. I think I can keep your primarch alive through a tiny firefight."

When the captain nods and sends her people to their positions, Shepard turns back to him, leaning in so close he can feel her breath on his face. "You ready, Primarch?" she asks, staring into his eyes, a crooked smile teasing him with his title.

"Fewest kills buys dinner?" he asks, even as he follows her to the next cover a war-scarred supply crate. The base brings the war back, a runaway commuter shuttle slamming into him at near light speed. His rebuilding efforts haven't made it that far from the city's business and residential areas.

Her grin stretches until the little lines around her mouth and corners of her eyes deepen. Spirits, she's beautiful. His  _praela_  reborn from the commander's ashes. She shakes her head as if he'll regret making the bet. "You're on,  _caris_."

He leaps out as the enemy opens fire, moving quickly and sure, the assault rifle she gave him, finding every target, bringing them down in a couple squeezes of the trigger. He grins, the smile spreading as the old confidence … the old competence returns. As primarch, he never feels quite prepared or sure enough. He became complacent in his surety as a general; war as natural to him as breathing.

Her gun in his hands, her back pressed to his as they clear the floor … the only thing he is unsure of is whether or not he's ever felt more alive.

Neutralizing the base takes an hour, an hour during which every part of his body reminds him that he sits behind a desk far too much these days. His thighs quiver from exertion when once he remained crouched in cover for over an hour to spring a trap. In the end, he owes her dinner but couldn't be happier to be shown up.

Shepard leads the way into the base lieutenant's office. "So, when can I expect my dinner?" she asks, her glance all sunlight sparkling off clear water. "The last time you made me wait far too long." She dives into the heap of paper and datapads spread across one of the desks.

He tackles the other, neater desk and it's file drawers. "The night we find and take down the bastard who runs this show?" Nothing on the desk points to anything other than the other bases. Two days, six bases across the Citadel, Palaven, and Menae have rooted out all but The Proud Remains' leader.

Whoever it is has kept himself well hidden behind cell leaders, but each cell they find leads them to another, so perhaps this one will pull back the veil. He abandons the desk for the drawers, using his Talon to pry open the lock.

"I'm going to hold you to that," she says, victory ringing through her tone like a battle horn. A datapad glows in her hand as she holds it out to him. "We've got the bastards."

His brow plates jump toward his crest. "Bastards?" Slipping out of the chair he strides over to take the datapad. "Plural?" He reads the screen, a vicious snarl of a smile making his mandibles flick hard then quiver. One of the three names is not a surprise, the other two fairly unknown … ministers in the hierarchy whom he's seen, but never interacted with.

It doesn't matter; it's the first name he wants to nail to a post in the desert for the  _siccerta_  to feast on. He looks up past the glowing incrimination, his stare locking on his  _praela's_. "I think it's time the hierarchy called General Commodus home."

* * *

Never before have the walls of Victus's office pressed so tight, and his formal armour—dressy more than practical—squeezes and rubs in all the wrong places. He wriggles, tugging at the collar and girdle. How has he never noticed that before?

His intercom beeps, and Ralayis's voice breaks his building, nervous temper. "The party you've been waiting for has arrived, Primarch."

The party he's been … cheeky  _tarin_. Taking a deep breath, he lets all his tension drift out on the exhale, muscles and mood softening. She came. As impossible as it seems in the lonely dark before he sleeps, she's real and she's there. "Send her in, thank you."

"Are you sure? I know how busy you are." Just beyond Ralayis, he hears a familiar chuckle.

Answering only with a soft growl, he turns toward the door. When it opens, his hands lose all sense of purpose, not certain whether to hang by his sides, or cross his arms over his chest, or reach out to Shepard as she crosses the threshold. She saves him from the impossible predicament by reaching out to him as she crosses the thick carpet.

"You look fantastic." She squeezes his hands, releasing them only to tug the front panels of his black, gold-embroidered vestment into perfect alignment. "Every bit the primarch." When she stops fussing and looks up, he sees in her eyes the ghosts of all the same ugly whispers that taunt him.

His hands find hers, stilling them in a gentle grip. "Are you ready?" The question feels stupid—of course she's ready to be free of Commodus and his threats—but he knows she sees much more in those words: a future every bit as terrifying as war and death. There have always been good, solid reasons … practical reasons that keep them apart. First the war. Then her time in the hospital came complete with boundaries and borders, all as comforting as they were confining. Her leaving him to protect him formed three cycles of massive walls.

They couldn't be together, so they couldn't screw it up and break one another's hearts. They couldn't be together, so he didn't have to face the fact that his people might never accept their primarch being in a relationship with a human. Now those borders are tumbling down. It's terrifying.

"I'm ready." She squeezes his talons, her grip trembling. "Garrus is waiting to accompany me to the gallery, but I'd like to walk to the chamber with you, if that's okay?" The skin between her brows knots, and he releases her hand, reaching up to smooth her worry away.

_I'd have had you walk me to that door every time over the past three cycles and every time from here until I retire._

Instead of saying the words, he takes her hand and leads her to the door. She's wearing her armour, naturally, but he can feel the heat of her palm, even through their gloves.

Before they walk through, she tugs him to a stop. "Hold on a second there, Primarch." She grins and unzips her belt pouch. "I've got a 'good luck and go get him' present for you."

Breathless, his free hand aches to reach up and caress her face … to let all the foolish barriers fall away. He's so busy studying the pattern of freckles over her nose that she startles him when she presses something into his palm. Looking down, he smiles, mandibles quivering with emotion he can't afford to let show. Not yet. Not before Commodus falls.

His gloves.

"Keep them right close to you," she whispers, leaning up to press a kiss against his cheek. Turning her head slightly, she wraps her free arm around his neck, the softness of her cheek solid against his for long seconds before she pulls away. "Because I can't be."

Victus follows her for the first few centimetres. Damn the hierarchy and damn their schedule. In the week since he found Jane, they've kissed and held one another only the once. Her gravity irresistible, she pulls him with her, a star so bright that it warms the universe, painting even the shadows gold.

"So, what are you making me for dinner after all this is over?" she asks, the question easing the chill when she steps back. Her eyes flash, the promise in her gaze allowing him to take his gloves and tuck them in behind the chest piece of his armour.

He opens the door, gesturing for her to precede him. "A massive dextro steak." Nodding, he followed her, taking her hand again as soon as they clear the door. "Covered in every single dextro food product that is guaranteed to melt you from the inside out."

She chewed on the side of her bottom lip, nodding to herself. "Sure, that sounds awesome. There's nothing I love better than spending some time in hospital, getting my stomach pumped." Squeezing his hand, she chuckles at his weak excuse for a joke, transporting him back in time more than four cycles to the night a drunken Shepard curled up against his side and wept herself to sleep.

He understands. She's telling him he can trust her the way she trusted him that night, open, vulnerable, and scared. She's telling him to let down his barriers, so he allows silence to fill the space. Gossamer ties form between them, so fragile that even trying to see them blows them apart. She's not running.

"Victus!" Vakarian senior and junior stride toward them, the elder holding up a hand as if fearing his bellow won't catch the primarch's attention. He smiles at Jane, reaching out a hand long before she's in range to take it. "So glad to meet you at last."

Jane leaves Victus's side to grip Herros Vakarian's wrist. "Pleased to meet you face to face, sir. Garrus talks about you all the time." She grins and weathers the buffet from her best friend. "What? You do."

Garrus gives Victus a stiff nod as he offers his hand. "Primarch."

"Are we ready?" Herros asks, looking from Victus to Shepard and back.

Shepard takes a deep breath and nods. "Let's get this done." She steps toward Garrus. "Come on, big fella, let's get up there. I want front row seats when this trap snaps closed." She slips her arm through his and looks back at Victus. "Go get him." She smiles, a small, secret sort of smile that might appear a trick of the light to anyone but him.

"No mercy," he promises, breathing that smile in deep. It's his and his alone. He knows that suddenly and completely, the knowledge bracing him like well tempered steel. Returning her smile, he nods, just once, his back straightening and neck arching. He's the primarch of the Turian Empire, and Commodus won't know what hit him.

Once Shepard and Garrus head off to the gallery, Victus ushers Herros toward the huge main doors. The hierarchs are still drifting in, the gong won't be rung for a few minutes yet, but the room drops to silence as Victus enters. He takes his seat at the far side of the room, his desk facing the backs of his closest advisors, the rest of the room arranged in a semi-circle to face him. Once he's settled, he looks up to see Shepard and Garrus taking seats directly across from him.

The chamber smells of dust and ancient tradition, a mustiness unusual to a brand new building. Perhaps it's the furniture: it had all been stored away in massive vaults beneath the walls of the canyon. And then again, maybe it's just because the turians within—robed in black like grave kestrel—remain so firmly entrenched in the past.

The gong rings three times, it's deep, sonorous tone echoing off the stone mosaics that cover the walls. He allows the last ring to drift into silence before he nods to Vakarian Sr..

"As Speaker of the Seat, I call this session of the Seat of the Turian Hierarchy to order," Vakarian Sr. calls out. "Before us today is the matter of filling the seats on the Colonial Security Sub-Committee. It will be this committee's mandate to analyze the security of turian colony worlds and report back with recommendations for moving forward with the allocation of the military budget."

Victus watches the assembled hierarchs. Almost all of them sit in attendance. He takes a breath, pleased to make his position as clear as new-frozen ice with the few political rivals who might consider taking up where Commodus left off in attendance. He might not have wanted the job, now that he has it, he'll brook no treason.

Vakarian nods to the guards at the antechamber door. "Bring in the candidates."

Commodus leads the small crowd of hopefuls through the doors, his head high, neck arched, a decided swagger in his steps. Victus clamps his mandibles tight against his face in case he alerts Commodus to the trap about to close around him.

Once the candidates have filed in and stand in lines according to their ranks, Vakarian nods. "All but Atillan Commodus, Nerria Talun, and Pallux Naris are excused." A hand gesture brings guards in to circle the three leaders of The Proud Remains.

Gasps and oaths of surprise meet the sudden change of direction, but Victus doesn't respond to them. Once the decoy personnel leave the chamber or take their seats, the primarch stands, stepping past his podium to loom over Commodus. If it amounts to gloating over a vanquished enemy, he's glad to do it. Every twitch of the  _spurin's_  mandibles registers another victory as Herros Vakarian reads the charges.

"Hierarch Atillan Commodus, Ministers Nerria Talun and Pallux Naris, you are hereby remanded into the custody of the Turian Internal Forces Criminal Division to answer to the following charges: two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, in addition to single charges of organizing and financing a terrorist organization, treason and sedition, and conspiracy to instigate an interspecies incident among other lesser charges." Vakarian looks over the room. "Who steps forward to bring these charges?"

Victus draws himself tall and square, lining the primarch's trappings with the general's steel. "I do."

And then from the balcony, "As do I."

Victus looks up, surprised to see Shepard standing at the railing. She doesn't have a voice in the Seat, but when he shifts his gaze to Vakarian Sr., he sees the plan.

Commodus spins around, rigid and trembling with fury, as Herros speaks. "The Speaker recognizes Captain Jane Elizabeth Shepard as an injured party in regards to these proceedings."

Sly. Very sly.

"Hierarch Atillan Commodus, Ministers Nerria Talun and Pallux Naris, you will now be turned over to the judiciary. Although you are not required to speak and incriminate yourselves, I am required to allow you to answer the charges." Pausing, Vakarian looks up at the gallery. "Do the accused have anything to s—"

"This is insanity!" Commodus steps forward, yanking his arm free of the guard holding it. "Our primarch spent months running the human homeworld instead of returning to run Palaven. He was in an open relationship with a human, and that relationship has clearly continued." He spins, his stare leaping up to stab at Shepard. "How can we ever trust his loyalty to our people? He'd pollute even the hierarchy." The disgraced  _torin's_  chuckle raked along the underside of the primarch's spine as Commodus turns, Victus's turn to feel the knife slide between his ribs. "You're the traitor, Victus, not me, and the turian people won't stand for this … disgrace."

"If I may speak to the hierarch's assumptions?" Shepard's voice carries no worry or anger, but her stare deepens, a still surface of a fathomless sea, the thinnest skin of ice formed in the dark hours. And spirits, haven't they all been dark?

Victus steps to the edge of his podium, one hand lifting to grip the edge of the lectern, unable to let himself fall into that sea. He'll drown. He almost misses Vakarian's reply.

"You may."

Bracing her hands against the railing, Shepard leans out, looking over the assembled hierarchs. Every eye is focused on her. "Is Hierarch Commodus correct? Will the turian people stand up against Primarch Victus if he and I pursue a romantic relationship?" The moment her gaze touches his once more, everyone else in that chamber disappears.

Victus no longer feels the floor, gravity having lost its hold on him. Airless, he floats there, hide and plates tingling, arms and legs numb, both impossibly heavy and impossibly free.

Vakarian clears his throat, the sound stretching and echoing in the light years between him and the primarch's aural canals. "The only way to answer that question is to put it to the floor." The speaker clears his throat. "This will be an anonymous and unofficial vote, although I do want its results recorded as such on the transcript." He nods. " _Quirte_ , please close your voting shrouds. While asking for a vote on an issue like this is unorthodox, the question remains: Do the people—as represented by this body—oppose Primarch Victus and Captain Jane Elizabeth Shepard engaging in a romantic relationship?"

As the moments pass Victus holds Shepard's gaze across the chamber, still able to see Commodus seething in his peripherals.

Vakarian Sr. speaks, victory rich within his subvocals, "The vote stands at 103 votes not opposed, 18 votes opposed." He turned to look up at Victus. "It appears Hierarch Atillan Commodus and his Proud Remains are amongst the minority."

Victus smothered a grin at the Speaker's smug tone. Garrus didn't land far from that nest.

"Guards, please deliver our suspects to the judiciary." Vakarian rang the gong three times, declaring the matter closed.

The guards place the three turians in chains, the day surprising Victus again as nearly the entire Seat stands, rapping their knuckles against their desks … applauding the arrest … applauding him and Shepard.

Victus returns to his seat, smoothing the sleek panels of his robe as he sits. The room towers above and around him, but for the first time since he arrived home and set foot in the chamber, it doesn't feel as though he's been swallowed by a leviathan. For the first time, being primarch doesn't feel like a prison sentence or a cruel joke …

… and all because he still feels Shepard's eyes watching him from across that expanse.

He settles into the chair.

* * *

 **Caman -**  The hearth at the center of every turian  _domin_  (home). Also refers to the kitchen area because it is the gathering place of the family, and therefore, the  _domin's_  center.

 **Domin -**  Home.

 **Puer -** Child.  _Plural:_  Puerin

 **Greetings for expected friends:**   **Welcome:**  Laramici  **Thanks/Acceptance:**  Utamiri

 **Avosem:**  Grandfather

 

When the door chimes that night, Terion distracts Victus from the sudden coronary incident going on behind his keel when he sticks his head around the  _caman_ arch. "Do you want me to get it?" he asks, his mandibles flicking with his teasing.

Victus just grumbles at him and works at swallowing. Spirits, chalk and sandpaper line his mouth. "Behave yourself," he manages at last, giving Terion a narrow-eyed glare. He shoots one at Marc for good measure. "You, too."

Marc looks up from the rug where he's playing soldiers with Zirra and Sam. "What? Me? What have I done?"

Victus grins. "Nothing," he says as he turns to walk to the door, "yet." He winks at Zirra when the  _puer_  giggles. "Keep an eye on him."

"I will," she says, turning a wide grin to Marc. "He needs it."

Her squeals shatter every eardrum in the  _domin_  as Marc scoops her up in his arms. "Keep an eye on me, will you?" He climbs to his feet, dangling the  _puer_  upside down once he's standing. "How are you going to do that when you're upside down?"

"Behave yourselves … all of you." Victus opens the door, his mandibles spread in a wide smile. Shepard stands on the other side, the hood of her overcoat pulled low over her face, rain pelting down. He steps back. " _Laramici_." He waves to the two  _torins_  behind her, their dark cloaks turning them into ghosts in the black. "Come in before you're soaked through."

Shepard slips past him. " _Utamiri._ " She removes her coat and slips off her boots before moving in a couple metres further, allowing Garrus and Herros to follow her into the dry warmth.

Marc steps in to take everyone's outerwear. "I'll hang these under the heat lamp to dry." With that, he disappears down the hallway toward the bathroom.

" _Laramici_ ," Victus repeats, ushering his guests into the sitting room. He turns to where Shepard had been standing, but she's vanished. A second later, he hears the  _puerin_  laughing. Shepard crouches next to them, gentle hands caressing their heads and checking out their toys as she inquires about their lives.

And suddenly, as much as the get together had been his idea, Victus regrets that he and Shepard don't have the evening alone. They're finally within reach of one another and the coward he is, he decides they need to figure things out with everyone first.

He's an idiot.

Shepard turns to face him, Sam sitting on her one hip, Zirra on the other, both clinging to her neck. She studies him for a moment, then turns to the children. "Do you guys mind if I talk to your  _avosem_  for a few minutes?"

Chest aching at her easy rapport with the children, Victus watches, allowing himself a moment to imagine another family. It's ridiculous, dreaming of such things at his age. He's raised his children, buried a bond-mate and a son. Surely ….

Zirra grins and shakes her head, mandibles flicking as her eyes glance between Victus and Shepard. "No, Terion isn't finished reheating the food yet. It got cold on the way home."

Shepard chuckles and leans in to nuzzle Zirra's cheek. Spirits, if she isn't already attached. "As long as it doesn't mess with the food, huh? I hear you there. I'm starving." She sets the  _puer_  down then turns to Sam on her other hip. "How about you, little man? You okay with me stealing your grandpa?"

Victus's mandible flick once, hard. Grandpa. And it hits him. He is. He's become an  _avosem_. His eldest is all but bonded and settled with a career and family he loves. His parental duties are far from over, but maybe it's not such a terrible thing to want someone to walk through life beside him.

Two metres away, Sam leans in to whisper in Shepard's ear. She's won over even their shy little Sam. And shy, he mostly certainly is. The little guy shows affection and clings to all three of them, but he's yet to speak out loud. He whispers answers to questions—no doubt conditioned from living in hiding—never making a sound … even when he fell and scraped his knee the day before.

"Thank you." She tickles his cheek with her nose, then sets him down as well.

Again, Victus flashes to Shepard holding and playing with their child. He sighs. He's such a fool.

Victus walls up his foolish, far-too-early hopes as Sam sits next to Zirra, and watches the two of them galloping around a couple of animals Marc whittled for them out of scraps. But then the heat of Shepard's stare warms the side of his head, pulling his attention back to her.

When he turns to look at her, she turns her smile to him and holds out a hand. "Lead on, Primarch."

Victus looks to his guests, then to Shepard. They really should get everyone's input into how to manage public opinion … or even if they should risk the fallout. Service before self. But then Shepard doesn't give him a choice, dragging him to the hallway.

"Which room?" She stares up at him, expectant and unyielding. She's got something on her mind, that much is clear and it sinks talons into his gut. Surely she's not going to continue denying their relationship? Not after she asked the Seat for their blessing and got it.

Breath quick and shallow—suffocating beneath the possibilities—he leads the way to the back of the apartment and his bedroom. He opens the door, suddenly self-conscious about absolutely everything. Has he made his bed? Check. Clothes all picked up; no underclothing lying draped over the edge of the hamper? Check. Datapads not strewn everywhere ... . He winces. Definitely not check.

Shepard chuckles and gathers up an armload to make room to sit. "Bring your work home, do you, Primarch?"

He lifts the stack from her arms and sets them on the night stand. "Bad habit." He moves past her to clean up the rest, but she snags his hand, stopping him.

"Sit down. I want to talk to you, not shout as you race past." She tugs him over beside her. "Sit, please. I can live with the sea of datapads."

Instead of doing as she asks, he turns to face her. After staring down into her eyes for long moments, he crouches in front of her, hands on her knees. "Okay, I'm listening, Jane." Heart pounding, he reaches up to brush a stray lock of the new, black hair from her brow.

She stares into his eyes long enough that he begins to worry, but then she takes a deep, ragged breath and shakes her head. "Regardless of what the Hierarchy said today, if we move ahead, we're going to face an uphill battle the entire way. We not only have the interracial issue, we have the two-of-the-most-recognizable-people-in-the-galaxy issue. We'll never have a life that isn't the center of news and gossip." Looking down, she lays her hands over his. "It will add a pile of extra stress on top of being primarch."

Victus nods, looking down at their hands. "After having lived the past three cycles as primarch without you, I can't imagine doing it alone forever. Not having you to come home to … to talk to … to hold." Turning one hand over, he wraps his talons around hers, knowing the bleak loneliness he's survived shows in his eyes as he looks up. "You're so beautiful."

Letting out a long breath, he shifts to kneel. "I love you, Jane." He smiles and cups her cheek in his palm. "I've loved you pretty much since the moment I first saw you, but you're young. You could find some handsome young man to give you a complication-free life." He nods, sighing again, a cloud of dizziness swirling inside his head as he imagines her with another bond-mate … their children tagging along, clinging to her hands.

He wants that with her. Spirits, he doesn't know if he's ever wanted anything more. Still, he understands if she doesn't want to live her entire life as The Commander Shepard, the human saviour of the galaxy, Pridamani of Palaven, subject of constant scrutiny, gossip, criticism, and nonexistent privacy.

"Do you think I'm looking for a beautiful face, Adrien?" Blowing a noisy breath out through her nose, she leans forward, resting her brow against his. "Well, I suppose you're right, except that I've already lost my heart to a completely gorgeous fellow. He's got the strongest heart, is the finest of  _torins_ , and possesses the loveliest face I've ever seen."

When she leans back, Shepard's fingertips follow the contours of his face, so soft that they feel like raindrops trickling over his hide. "This face …. You, Adrien. I choose you, and it's always been you, even when I wanted to kick your ass all the way to Tuchanka and back."

Her lips brush the end of his nose, warm and soft and perfect, her breath cool with mint and rylamia. He grins: she's been nibbling on his garden.

Another soft kiss, that one pressed to the top plate of his mouth, velvet against weathered hide. "This face is everything you are, every kind moment, every hope and fear and tragedy ... ." She leans back slightly, her sigh musical as those bright emerald eyes smile into his. "How could I not find it beautiful? How could I not want it to be the first thing I see every morning, and the last thing every night?"

"It's worth all the stress and lack of privacy and boring political functions?" Tipping his head ever so slightly, he leans in until her lips brush his mouth.

"Yes. I just wanted you to be—"

He kisses her, cutting her off before she finishes that sentence. Some things are just worth putting up with a lot and risking it all.

She tops that list.

* * *

 

(A-N: Sorry for any booboos. We're going au naturel this week ... Beta is settling into school. So yeah, here we are, getting so close to the end of the main fic. Thanks so much for reading. *hugs*)


End file.
